


Rattle the Stars

by twinyards



Series: Like Us [1]
Category: Like Us Series - Krista Ritchie & Becca Ritchie
Genre: F/M, idk how to use extra tags so here i am whoop, lunelly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:52:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinyards/pseuds/twinyards
Summary: “If we were in a book, what would happen next?”-Luna and Donnelly become fast friends, but things get a little complicated when they add some extra benefits into the mix.





	1. Donnelly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the lunnelly twitter gc ily](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+lunnelly+twitter+gc+ily).



I feel like I’m back in college. Or more accurately, like Farrow is back in residency and I’m maintaining residence at his apartment. Only this time, instead of a bunch of annoying, elitist doctor types, I’m surrounded by famous ones. And instead of bringing home Ivy League chicks back to Farrow’s room for a quick lay, I’m sleeping alone on Jane Cobalt’s hideous excuse for a couch.

It’s become somewhat regular, my ending up in the Philly Townhouse instead of my own apartment. Home isn’t far, and I could get there easily, but lately my downtime has been a quiet affair, and I fucking hate that. Too much heavy shit is on my mind all the time, and it’s much easier to distract hanging out with Farrow and Moffy than it is sitting in my apartment, wondering how long I can watch Beckett drown himself before I fully lose my shit. 

Our world is in an upheaval. Now that Farrow and Moffy know Beckett’s secret, I thought I might feel some relief. Only, I don’t. If anything, I’m more bitter than ever. I wanted Moffy to find a solution Charlie, Oscar, and I hadn’t thought of, but we’re still at a standstill. 

Waiting for Beckett to hit his limit and go to a place we can’t put him back from is like tumbling off a cliff wearing a parachute but not pulling the chord. There’s a solution here, we just can’t find it. 

Beckett might be my client, but he’s also my friend in a weird way. SFO and the Cobalts are the closest thing to family as I’ve got. Which is why waking up at Farrow’s is my new routine. If I’m not alone, at least I won’t sit and agonize about another relationship ruined by addiction.

“You’re asleep on my couch again,” Luna says, entering the living room and shoving my feet off the couch to sit beside me. There’s a mug of coffee in her hand, but she looks green when she lifts it to her mouth to take a sip. And not green in her usual, marker covered way. The girl looks like she’s about to puke.

Carefully, I extract my feet out of rolfing range. “And you’re hungover.”

She looks like she’s about to shrug, but then stiffens in obvious pain. I can’t tell how much of her sullen expression is because her body loathes her existence, and how much of it is from whatever sent her out drinking on a wednesday. 

Ever since Luna got a boyfriend, I’ve been keeping half an eye on her. We were cool on the tour bus, almost friends in a way. When you get to know Luna Hale, she isn’t like anyone else. I liked that uniqueness in her. So, when we were driving and everyone was asleep, we’d talk about space and the stories she wrote a lot. I even gave her a couple of tattoos.

But once the boyfriend, Andrew, entered the picture, it was like Luna was trying to shed her skin and fit into someone else’s. She did away with her space stickers and green marker, pulling her hair into a yuppie ponytail and covering up her tattoos with makeup. Everyone who knew her was freaked the fuck out. Myself included. 

Now that she’s broken up with the class A douche, Luna’s back to her extraordinary wardrobe and personality; that one that makes everyone think maybe she got body swapped with an alien at birth. But her spirits haven’t lifted since the breakup. As far as I can tell, she’s still withdrawn and moody.

My eyes flick to the clock on the wall. It’s barely six o’clock in the morning, and no one else has trudged downstairs yet to start their day. By the look on Luna’s face and the tinged of gray in her skin, I’m assuming she woke to make acquaintance with her toilet bowl. 

“Were you celebrating or mourning?”

Luna flicks her eyes to me, but her expression is unreadable. “Celebrating,” she says, but there’s no inflection to her voice. It’s like she’s reciting a textbook. “Tom and Eliot wanted to celebrate me ditching Andrew.”

Furrowing my eyebrows, I ask, “Then why do you look like someone burned down a Wawa?”

She gives me the look most people aside from Oscar and Farrow give me when I bring up Wawa, like I’m a set of complex calculus equations and she’s a kindergarten who just wants to learn to spell her name. It’s a look I’m used to, but at least with Luna there’s a tinge of amusement behind it. Not that I tend to give a fuck what people think of me, but it’s still a nice change of pace.

Luna is silent long enough that I realize she has no intention of answering me. Instead, she gets up, sets her coffee cup on the kitchen counter and pulls on her coat without a word. She’s in pajamas, a pair of green alien feet slippers on, but she heads for the front door without a second thought.

When I start putting together her intentions, I bolt upright on the couch. “Where the fuck are you going?”

Unlocking the door, she flashes me a debit card. “For a snack run,” Luna says, like going out at six a.m. in alien pajamas is a normal thing. Maybe it is for her, fuck if I know. “I need junk food if I’m going to survive this hangover rather than force Kinney to communicate with me via oujia board.”

“Okay fine, but go get Quinn. You can’t go by yourself.” This girl is crazy. 

Despite her green tinge, Luna manages to send me a scathing, mocking glance. “I don’t want to wake him up. If you’re really that paranoid, than come with me. But it’s not like I haven’t gone around without a bodyguard before.”

My mind flashes through her ditching her old bodyguard and hitchhiking to meet up with the tour bus. She’s phoned Charlie to let him know she was coming, but she easily could have gotten caught up in paparazzi or rowdy fans before she managed to get to her family and SFO. Everywhere that girl goes, she’s a magnet for trouble if someone isn’t there to hold out an arm and bar her from it. 

I really should run and wake Quinn, but Luna isn’t waiting for me. By the time I get his ass out of bed and dressed, she could be half way down the block. On the opposite side of the equation, I could easily go with her so she isn’t alone, but I need to meet up with Beckett within the next couple of hours, and who knows how long this ‘snack run’ is going to last. Either way I flip the situation, I feel like I’m getting screwed.

She’s already out the door before I make up my mind.

“Shit,” I growl, flinging myself off the couch and cramming my feet into my sneakers at lightning speed. I shrug on a jacket, grab my phone, and grab a baseball cap of questionable origin off the coat rack before bolting after Luna.

When I catch up to her outside the townhouse, I quickly stuff the baseball cap on her head. She looks up with a surprised glare. “You could at least try not to be so fucking recognizable,” I grumble, running a frustrated hand through my hair. 

She only laughs, snuggling the cap closer to her head. My radio for security is clipped to my jeans still, and I’m suddenly glad I never remembered to change into something more sleep worthy last night. I put the earpiece in, knowing Akara is probably at the gym with Sulli, and am instantly made calmer by distant chatter in my ear. A quick scan of the neighborhood yields little of concern. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to slip through the streets relatively unnoticed by any paparazzi. 

Silently, I curse Luna for being so adamant about this morning stroll. I’d much rather be drifting back to sleep right now, or at least be inside somewhere where it isn’t so fucking cold. Still, I’ve been around Luna long enough to know that a lecture from anyone but Moffy or Lo hold next to no weight in her eyes. Her father and big brother are the only ones who she allows to give her orders. She’ll listen to whatever I say, then promptly throw my advice out the window. 

With a sigh of resignation, I pull out my phone to text Quinn, Moffy, and Farrow. All three are bound to have a coronary if they wake up and realize Luna is gone. 

**Heads up, don’t freak that Luna isn’t there. She’s hungover, so we’re making a snack run. - Donnelly**

In record time, my phone is ringing. Farrow’s called ID flashes across the screen, and Luna casts me an amused glance as I answer it and put it on speaker, knowing Maximoff will be at Farrow’s side throthing at the mouth that his sister left the house without her usual bodyguard.

“Where are you?” Farrow’s voice cuts through the speakers, more authoritative than I have the energy to deal with this early in the morning. Moffy’s voice cuts in as well, “Where’s my sister?”

“Both of you, relax.” I keep my voice calm, even though I want to snap at them both. I might not be Luna’s bodyguard, but I’m still damn good at my job. “She’s standing right next to me. We’re on our way to - I don’t actually know where we’re going but we’re fine. Just a couple blocks from your place.”

“You should have woken Quinn.” Farrow says, and I can literally hear his frown.

Moffy doesn’t miss a beat. “Come back.”

Even though Luna is watching me, I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. She lets out a soft chuckle at my exasperation, when I mouth  _ where are we going _ , her eyes light up mischievously. She looks better having just been outside in the cold air, less sickly and more like the girl I’m used to. 

_ Wawa, _ she mouths back, and it’s my turn to chuckle. 

“We’re just going to Wawa,” I say into the phone. “We’ll be right back. I didn’t have time to wake Quinn; Luna was going to go by herself.”

Luna grimaces at that, and we both know why. We’re anticipating Moffy’s annoyed declarations. Right on queue:

“She what? Donnelly, put her on the phone.”

“You’re on speaker,” I tell him. Then I look at Luna, who looks torn between feeling bad and feeling triumphant that she managed to rope me into this. “Can you say something so your brother stops acting like you’re going to die?”

“I’m not acting-” Moffy starts, but Luna cuts him off.

“Did you know Phoenix, Arizona has the most reported UFO sightings out of anywhere in the US?” God, this girl is weird. “I think we should vacation there, Moffy.”

On the line, Moffy lets out an exaggerated sigh, but I can tell he’s comforted by hearing Luna talk. It takes a few more minutes of exchange, by which point I’m pulling open the door to Wawa and Luna is scuttling down the aisle towards the drinks, before Moffy finally agrees to hang up the phone. Quinn has already texted me at least eight times, but I ignore each one and stuff my phone in my pocket. 

I keep a few feet behind Luna, letting her do her thing but staying close enough to intervene if necessary. After a few minutes, I crack into a grin. Luna does this weird thing while she shops for food, where she reaches out absentmindedly and runs her fingers around every label. Like by touching the chip bags, one will call out to her and she’ll know what she should buy.  With her hair knotted on her head, and those ridiculous alien slippers on her feet, she looks more herself than I’ve ever seen her. 

When her arms are so full of random things that she looks liable to drop everything, I start pulling things out of her arms. She shoots me a grateful smile. We’re rerouted for the register when she asks suddenly, “If we were in a book, what would happen next?”

My eyebrows furrow, and I drop all her food items on the counter as the clerk starts ringing everything up. “What?”

“I have writer's block,” Luna explains, “so I’m trying a new thing to inspire me. So, if we were a book right now, what would happen next?”

This is something I have to think about. Absently, I hand the clerk a twenty and grab Luna’s bag of treats, leading us both out. It doesn’t occur to me until after I’ve done it that Luna could have easily paid for herself, but neither of us comments on it. She’s too intent on waiting for my response, and I’m too amused by her request. 

It’s such a  _ Luna _ question that I want to laugh, but I know she asked it seriously, so I refrain. After a few long moments of careful consideration, I say, “If we were in a book, something dramatic would happen. Something Cloverfield apocalyptic, and then we’d discover the Hale’s real baby was swapped out with the princess of a super alien race, and your creepy, alien country is in a revolt and coming to have you run their planet.”

“Lame,” Luna says, but she’s grinning so wide her cheeks have doubled in size, so I know she likes my answer. 


	2. Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Lunelly bonding because these two have an iconic friendship and I love a slow burn.

**Luna**

Three days post Wawa excursion, it’s no surprise to me when I come downstairs at 3am to find none other than Paul Donnelly sitting at our kitchen island, reading glasses perched on his nose and a paper towel spread out before him while he uses a ballpoint pen to trace an intricate design across its ridged surface. The glasses are a new look, one I’ve never seen or even imagined on him before, but I like the effect they have. He looks so much less severe with his eyes made big by his lenses, his brows becoming bushy caterpillars over the arch of the frames.

It feels like our couch has become his new bedroom, and I can tell it’s starting to get on Moffy and Jane’s nerves. Of course, out of loyalty to Farrow, they’re putting up with it all the same. For the most part, Donnelly stays out of the way, though I think my big brother about dropped dead when he walked into the kitchen once and found Donnelly puffing on a joint. After  _ that _ epic episode, I was a lot more careful about keeping my own stash well hidden.

Unlike my brother and cousin, I kind of like having him in the house with us. Moffy, Jane, and Farrow are a bit of a closed unit, and though I know they all love me, I’m always a bit on the outs among them. We’re family, but not friends the way I wish we were. Though Donnelly is closer to abrasive and offensive than friendly, I appreciate that he never censors himself when I’m around. When he’s here, at least one person acts like I’m an adult. 

“We have paper, you know,” I tell him, grinning madly when he flinches and swears in surprise. 

Briefly, he flicks his gaze up at me as I stride into the kitchen. Donnelly, as ever, makes no move to try and hide the way his eyes trail my body in a none-too-quick once over. There’s a tension in the air when he hovers over my bare legs, the cotton of my pajama shorts covers little, but the tension dies when his eyes land on my slippers. The neon green alien feet slippers are the same I wore on our early morning snack run, but I can see that his amusement hasn’t dulled since then.

A flush creeps up my cheeks, though I have no idea why, and I turn around to begin pulling ingredients out of the pantry. My imagination might be running wild, but there’s a burn on my lower back when my shirt rides up as I snatch to grab bread from a high shelf, where I swear I can feel his eyes lingering. Neither of us comments on it as I turn back around.

“Paper towel works fine,” Donnelly shrugs. His eyes follow my hands as I butter two pieces of bread and plop some pre-sliced cheese between them before planting them in a frying pan on the stove. “Are you going to make me one of those?”

I raise an amused brow, shooting back, “Are you going to ask me to?”

“Make me one?”

My nose wrinkles. I feign consideration for a moment. “Hmm, no.” He makes an affronted noise, and my grin spreads wide. “Ask me nicely. Make it good.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a grin on his face as Donnelly says, “Oh, Princess Luna, writer of killer fics, American royalty, questionably of this Earth, would you please do me the great honor of making me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“No,” my response is instantaneous, even as I grab two more pieces of bread. Donnelly laughs, shaking his head, and returns to his paper towel. 

We’re comfortably silent as I cook and Donnelly returns to his drawing. By now, I’m so used to his presence that it feels as natural as being with my family. Our bodyguards have always been present. Even my earliest memories hold a stoic face and a radio in one ear. Now that I’m older, I appreciate the relationships SFO have carefully constructed with us. Like if I walk into the adjoining townhouse right now and wake Quinn, he won’t just be worried because I’m his client, but because he considers me something like a friend. 

I steal a glance at Donnelly’s drawing as I slide a grilled cheese across the counter. At some point, he’s flipped the paper towel over and started working on something new. The shape is vague, and his hand blocks too much of the surface area for me to see most of the image. I can’t make out anything identifying, so I content myself watching him work while I eat.

Absently, Donnelly reaches for his sandwich with one hand, the other still adding small details to finish it off. He takes a large bite, cheese hot enough to scald his tongue, and mutters a few choice curses. I use my own food to stifle a giggle, legs swinging from my perch on the countertop. Dropping his food back on his plate for a moment, Donnelly examines his work before shrugging and shoving the small rectangle of paper cloth across the island towards me. 

My food is appealing, but curiosity takes precedent. I hope down quickly, taking the two steps forward to see what he’s drawn. My jaw drops slightly. Breath catches in my throat. It’s beautiful, in a strange sort of way. Anyone passing without paying attention would think it a scribble, but I watched the way his pen never left the surface of the paper towel, one line turning slowly into what I now recognize as a portrait. Of me. 

Butterflies erupt in my stomach. I’m all but forgotten by Donnelly as he eats his sandwich, skimming through his phone without once looking my way. It’s not like him to be nervous to share his work, so I’m fairly certain he thinks this is too little of a deal to warrant watching my reaction. 

It’s simple, pure in its intention. He likely drew me simply because I was in the room; a more interesting subject than the bowl of fruit or dirty toaster on our countertops. But I love this gift. The more I look at it, the more I realize he’s managed to capture my grin from earlier, when he called me princess and suggested I was probably an alien. I’d never known what people liked about my smile until I see the way he’s inked it to the page.

“Can I keep this?” I ask, softly. Donnelly has never been territorial of his drawings around me before, but I’ve also never asked to take one out of his possession. 

He looks up, pushing his now empty plate away, and shrugs. “Do whatever you want with it.”

His seeming ambivalence intrigues me. I’ve always disliked the idea of overstepping boundaries, but I have my mother’s curiosity. Carefully, I lay the paper towel drawing on the counter in front of me, fingers still lingering on its edges as I lean forward. 

“When did you start drawing?”

Donnelly looks up. His expression isn’t quite guarded, but he looks confused by the question, and it occurs to me that possibly very few people, if any, have asked him this question. “I don’t know,” he says, tone unreadable. “When I was pretty young, I guess.”

“Did you always like it? Were you always good it at?” I bite my lip to keep from spitting out more questions. Along with her curiosity, I also have my mom’s inability to filter her thoughts before they leave her mouth. 

When I look up at his, Donnelly’s gaze lingers on my lips, but he drops his gaze to the table before he beings to answer. “I was always pretty decent,” he admits, and I like that he doesn’t downplay his skill. Then again, he doesn’t make himself seem godly the way my Uncle Connor would, either. “But it’s mostly habit. It was a good distraction when I was growing up.”

He falls uncharacteristically silent for a moment, looking a little lost in his own head. Part of me wants to push him to keep talking, but instinct tells me to be quiet and wait. It’s clear from the slight frown tugging the edge of his mouth that this is a sore subject for him. His 3am, sleep deprived brain has him opening up, and I don’t want to ruin that by pressing where he’s tender. 

While I wait, my mind tumbles through snippets I’ve heard from Moffy or Farrow, or things I overheard on the bus. There was a day when Donnelly basically never left his bunk, and I remember even Beckett looking concerned and saddened on his bodyguard’s behalf. Is the lost, hurt look in his eye’s no correlated to whatever was going on then?

It unnerves me, I realize, that Donnelly and the rest of security know everything about me and my family, but we know so little about them. Our lack of knowledge puts a serious strain on my theory that the older kids and SFO are friends. 

My silence is rewarded when he continues. “My family isn’t all that great, and my childhood was shit.” Donnelly shrugs as he says the words, but I can see the sting beneath his feigned nonchalance. “Mom’s an addict. Things were never stable for longer than a heartbeat. Drawing just let me be somewhere else. I don’t think I started loving it until later.”

The truth in his words stings. He’s made veiled comments to me about his family before, but none quite so illuminating as this. It's easy to read between the lines. His life was bad enough that he needed to escape into his own head, to transport himself somewhere else entirely. My stories are my escape, but I’ve only ever wanted to leave reality for the sake of adventure. Donnelly needed to escape reality to survive. 

And it's this small window that I think makes me understand him a bit better. There likely wasn't anyone around when he was growing up to filter him, to tell him when he was right or wrong, to encourage him to grow. The man Donnelly became is self-made, imperfect on all edges. But I see someone who should have given up, and decided to keep moving anyways. 

My life so easily could have been like his. If my mom hadn't gone into recovery. If my dad never stopped drinking. Where and who would I be, if my parents hadn't loved my brother enough to battle their worst demons before I was even brought into the world? Would I be as distant? Would I mask unhappiness and uncertainty with crude humor? Would I have friends like Farrow and Oscar and Beckett, or would I just be alone? I don't want to picture it. Not for a moment. 

A fraction of my heart shatters knowing that that’s the world Donnelly lives in. Only it's worse. Because he must wonder what would have happened if his mom had loved him enough to get sober. How his life would be different. How he would be different. 

Watching him now, no more paper to pull his thoughts into a new world, I can see the strain of Donnelly’s desire to remain normal, happy. I can see the weight of his past on his shoulders, threatening to grab him down and swallow him whole. 

I toss both of our plates into the sink. “Come on,” I say, heading away from the kitchen and towards the living room. I feel Donnelly’s eyes follow me before I hear his feet join in. 

Grabbing my laptop from our coffee table, I plop down on Jane’s couch. It's the most heinous piece of furniture I've ever seen in my entire life, but I try not to think about because Jane loves it so much. Her tastes are interesting, something Farrow always relates to grannies for its old, antique look and the number of cats scurrying around the house. Carpenter lies in the couch cushion beside me, but he scurried into my lap when Donnelly plops on the additional cushion.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re watching movies,” I say, shoving my laptop into his hands with Netflix already open for him to choose a show. “Friends have movie nights, don't they?”

He gives me a quizzical look, but turns to the computer and beings scrolling. “I didn't realize we were friends.” 

The comments stings a little, but I push around it. “We don't have to be,” I tell him. “But I don't make sandwiches at 3am for acquaintances.”

This has him laughing. “Relax, Hale. We can be friends.”

“I’m not too weird for you?”

“No way. Weird is cool. If you were normal,” he says, clicking on an animated film that brings a grin to my face. Monsters vs. Aliens. Typical. “I wouldn't call you my friend. Individuals only.”

This comment more than any other makes me smile wide. Donnelly turns to meet my expression, and laughs at the giddiness of it. I debate telling him that nothing makes me happier than being celebrated for exactly who I am. That I like finally having a friend that doesn't share my blood. But we've reached our quota for sappy comments today, so I just turn to the film. 

We talk through the whole thing, making comments and jabs and jokes about every scene. Donnelly loves BOB the blob, but I like Galaxar. (Honestly, how cool is that for an alien name?) It's so easy to talk, easier even to laugh. We periodically rise for snacks, and when I finally get so restless on the couch I flip upside down and let my hair dangle to the floor, Donnelly picks at a few strands and starts tying them into knots of three. It's such a curious gesture, I watch him for a long time before I can't withhold my question any longer. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Three knots is good luck,” he says offhandedly, like this is common knowledge. 

“And what do I need luck for?”

Donnelly turns to me with a serious look, but I catch the spark of humor in his eyes. “You’re a fucking Hale. You need all the luck you can get.” 

He’s referring to the Hale curse. I've never believed in it, not the way my mom or Kinney do. Being a Hale comes with many perks, but it also has its hardships. My family is front and center to the world, and our every move makes or breaks with a headline. We’ll never be private. I grew up knowing that the world would know every mistake I made, and they wouldn't go easy on me for it. 

It never bothered me. With six Hales, four Meadows, three Abbeys, and nine Cobalts in my life, I've never worried about the media. All my support has been within walking distance my entire life. The threat of the Hale curse was hardly a daunting weight when I had an entire army at my back. 

There's a part of me that wants to tell Donnelly I don't need his luck. That being a Hale doesn't just mean bad luck. That being a Hale means I’m stronger than most people he’ll ever meet. That being a Hale means I have superpowers. 

But I recognize the genuine affection of this gesture. It's no secret that Donnelly holds the Cobalts at the highest esteem, but his small act of defiance at what he assumes to be a pressure on my happiness and daily life is a rare event I don't want to ignore. So I let him work, fingers lightly working through the strands. When my face grows red from the blood rushing to my head, he gently pulls me head back onto the couch next to him, draping my hair across his lap to finish his work. I drift off with his fingers still in my hair, and more content than I’ve felt in days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is lowkey so mushy I feel strange bridging away from my usual angst... Regular chapter updates will be posted every Monday from here on until the story is finished. Hopefully you're all enjoying this so far, and I can't wait for you to read the upcoming stuff!  
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback are always appreciated.


	3. Luna

The funny thing about all my tattoos, I never thought I’d have them. Not because I didn’t want them, but because I’ve seen my dad pop of vein looking at all of Farrow and Donnelly’s ink over the years. So wanting a tattoo, and risking my dad’s ire to get one, they were really different things in my mind.

The tongue piercing was different; much easier to hide. Even when it got infected, no one knew but my siblings until Moffy guilted me into telling mom and dad. Being grounded was lame, but I could tell after the first day that my parents were more worried that something could have gone wrong than they were by the fact that I’d punched a hole in my body. 

However much I love my piercings though, now that I have my tattoos, I love them more. It’s a weirdly romanticized idea, but I kind of love that I was confident enough in my own skin to leave a piece of my personality on my body forever. I’m tracing the shooting star on my hip bone when the memory of it resurfaces. 

**_SOME MONTHS EARLIER_ **

_ “If you want one, I have my kit with me,” Donnelly says, noticing the way my stare lingers on the sketches that line the small kitchen table on our tour bus. Near everyone is asleep or in their bunks, and we’re the last two out in the living quarters of the bus. Thatcher is awake in the driver’s seat, but he’s far enough away that I almost forget he’s there. _

_ My eyes trace the careful pen strokes he’s inked across the pages. I have the sneaking suspicion that people look at Paul Donnelly and think he’s nothing more than a Philly street thug from the wrong side of the tracks, but watching his hands as he works, even if I’d never known him before today, I’d know that wasn’t the case.  _

_ There’s a tenderness to the way his hands glide across the page, every move calculated and smooth. He’s so intent on the picture he’s pulling to life, I’m surprised he hasn’t forgotten I’m in the room. His normally relaxed, I-don’t-give-a-shit vibe has been set aside. The look in his eyes is the closest thing to contentment that I’ve ever seen from him. Like he becomes a different person when he focuses on his art. Or maybe, he’s always that person, and when he’s drawing he just lets his guard down enough for people to actually see it.  _

_ Tearing my eyes away, I tell him, “I think my dad would kill me. I’m in enough trouble with him as it is.” I wave a hand, gesturing to the bus around us, and then poke out my tongue for him to examine the tongue ring that got me grounded for an eternity.  _

_ Donnelly sets his pen aside and sits up straight to meet my gaze. Even when he’s poised and at attention, there’s an aura of relaxation to his body language. Part of me thinks there’s never been a moment in Donnelly’s life where he gave a shit about what anyone saw when they looked at him.  _

_ “Luna,” he says my name like a reprimand, and I’m unreasonably annoyed by it. “You’re not that stupid.” _

_ My spine locks on the defensive, but I don’t show it. If Donnelly doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, than I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me.  _

_ “I’m not stupid at all,  _ Paul _ ,” I say, throwing the name back at him. His answering grimace feels like a win. “I just know my dad, and he hates tattoos. He’d probably have an aneurysm if I came home with one, and I’m not exactly excited about the idea of patricide.” _

_ “Look, I don’t know shit about having a good family. Oscar and Farrow, they’re what I’ve got, and that’s fine with me.” He says the words confidently, but I’m not sure I believe him. “But I’m not blind. Your family,” he flicks a hand around the bus, as if to indicate my sibling and cousins in various states of rest somewhere out of sight, “they’re not like anyone else’s. People get handed shit cards and shit parents all the time, but you’re living a dream life. Anyone here would come to your aid if you murdered someone and help you drag the body across the floor. _

_ “And your dad?” Donnelly pauses, and his gaze is so intense I can’t break it, even though I’m shifting nervously in my seat across from him. “Your dad might have that face and voice people cut themselves on, but I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that you could burn the whole world to the ground for kicks, and Loren Hale would still forgive you.” _

_ Desperately, I want to ask about his family; what he meant when he said Oscar and Farrow were all he had. I know that’s not the point of this discussion, and anyways, I’m not sure he would tell me if I asked. Yet, I’m caught on the severity of his tone. So rarely have I heard him say anything that wasn’t cockingly callous or ambivalent to a situation, that the seriousness of this exchange is weighing on my mind.  _

_ But I don’t dwell on it. Maybe I can get Moffy and Farrow to tell me something later. I just know now isn’t the time to push this conversation. I like the openness between us right now, almost like we’re friends, and I don’t want Donnelly to shut that door because I asked something I shouldn’t have.  _

_ “It’s not about whether he’d forgive me,” I say earnestly. “My parents - you’re right - they gave me everything. I just don’t want to disappoint them with anything.” _

_ Donnelly sighs, like he’s tired of explaining, but he still has that open, serious expression when he says, “Don’t dampen your light for anyone,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Not even your parents. They’ll love you no matter what, and your dreams don’t have to match up with what they wanted for you. At the end of the day, it’s your life. Live it how you want, whatever the cost.”  _

_ He thinks of that for a moment, then points a finger at me sternly. “Just don’t end up dead or pregnant. Your dad might forgive you a lot of shit, but if you did something stupid because of this conversation, your dad would chop off my dick with a box cutter and have your uncles help him dump my body in the Delaware River.” _

_ The image, though violent, makes me crack a small smile, but my grin spreads wider as I think of his words. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve barely slept, or the fact that I’ve got cabin fever from being cramped in this bus all the time, but his words are the only push I need.  _

_ “Will you draw something for me?” I’m starting to get excited about the idea, but my face falls quickly as realization dawns on me. “Wait, I don’t have any way to pay you.” _

_ Donnelly waves away the comment, not looking up from the drawing he’s scrutinizing. “I’ll draw you something. Pay me in one of those stories you’re always writing.” _

_ Without my permission, a blush colors my cheeks. “You want me to write you a fic?” It’s rare that I share my stories, even with my siblings. Everyone knows I write them, but they’re always anonymously posted online. Writing a story for Donnelly feels weirdly intimate.  _

_ “Yeah. Something cool. Make it a Luna Hale original. Something kinda supernatural.” _

_ “What about something with shifters? Human one minute, animal the next?” _

_ Donnelly nods approvingly. “Yeah, that sounds cool. Throw in some aliens while you’re at it. I know how you like that shit.”  _

**PRESENT**

The memory is one of my favorites from recent months. From such an unexpected source, those words were something I needed to hear without knowing it. Such a small thing, my tattoos, but now when I think about covering them up for Andrew, I want to grimace. I should have listened to Donnelly early on, but of course I didn’t. Something about the bodyguard commenting on my relationship set me on edge, even though I realize now he was trying to do me a favor. Talking to me the way he would talk to a friend. 

My whole life, my friends have been my family. Eliot and Tom have been next to me my whole life. My siblings and cousins - I never really thought I needed friends outside of them. When you have a family like mine, you never know someone’s motives for befriending, so I’ve always stuck with the people I know. 

Yet, I like the idea of branching past that. I love my family, more than anything in the entire world, but I dampen myself around them. Not because they ask me to, but because I know them so well that often times I know which of my decisions they’ll disapprove of before I make them, and I don’t want to see worry or disappointment flicker in someone’s eyes when I spark a joint or drink. 

Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked Donnelly so much. He’s never asked me to be anyone but me. He’s never censored himself around me. We both get to be ourselves without seeking permission. I want friends like that. Eliot and Tom will let me be wild, and they’ve always kept secrets when asked. I don’t know why I want more than that. I shouldn’t need it. But I do.

When my thoughts finally drift off from my tattoo, I make a split second, relatively rash decision. We all have SFO’s numbers, in case of emergency, so it would be easy to pull up Donnelly’s contact anyways, but his name is already at the top of my recent texts. We’ve been exchanging bits and pieces of stories and conversations, playing out the  _ what would happen next _ game whenever one of us is bored.

Despite our recent rise in contact and budding friendship, I’m still nervous reaching out. Playing our game or sharing a new story idea feels different than what I’m about to do. I type out my text before I can change my mind, dangling my head off the end of my bed while I wait for a reply.

**Are you crashing on our couch again? - Luna**

The reply is almost instantaneous. 

**Probably. - Donnelly**

**I found a new netflix documentary on Area 51 conspiracy theories. They’re hiding all the aliens from us. Want to watch with me? - Luna**

**Sure, Lunar. Whatever the hell you want. - Donnelly**

My nose crinkles reading his message. The edge of a laugh on my lips. 

**You spelled my name wrong! It’s LunA not LunAR. - Luna**

**Nah, I didn’t. You’re Lunar - cuz you’re weird about space and you’re crazy enough to come from the moon. - Donnelly**

I can’t help the grin that overtakes my face. The nickname is so simple, but it fits me in a way only someone who really knows me could come up with. It makes me feel  _ known _ in a silly sort of way. Buddyguards are supposed to be on your detail, but as much as I like Quinn, I like that Donnelly is becoming one of mine too.

Until now, I never really got why all my older cousins and Moffy liked SFO so much. Now that I’m finally eighteen, and they’re letting me into their world a little more, I can see that they’re all friends. SFO is much more open than my previous detail, caring less about what they say and how they talk to us so long as we’re safe. I can tell with SFO that they care about all of us beyond a paycheck. I’ve even started sharing my fics with them, and Oscar and Donnelly are frequently sending me feedback.

Since I’m the youngest, some of them still tiptoe around me. Not to the extent they used to, but still with a little black bar over things I know they’d talk about around Jane or Moffy or Sulli. But I’m starting to feel less like I’m on the outside of this life now. I actually fit in for once, without having to push to be involved. 

It’s a feeling I’m learning to love. 


	4. Paul

**** The early morning mail routine is my least favorite part of the day. Being awake before dawn and crowding into Quinn and Thatcher’s living room is bad enough, before you realize what could be in any number of the boxes lining the walls. Fans and assholes alike send any number of things. Love letters are just as common as accusations and insults. When Farrow was on Lily’s detail, he used to find sex toys nearly every day. He told me once that some looked used. Once, one of the kids even got roadkill in their mail. An actual dead animal stuffed into a box and set on their doorstep. 

Suffice to say, I hate mail routine.

The SFO townhouse living room is identical to Luna, Moffy, and Jane’s, minus the ugly furniture. Quinn and Thatcher keep it sparse. There’s only a few select items of furniture, all in neutral colors. The walls hold no decoration. Compared to my own apartment, the place barely even feels lived in.

Laundry baskets line the walls, each labeled with a client’s name. We’ve only been sorting for thirty minutes, but Maximoff and Sulli’s baskets are already overflowing. The pair of them accept almost everything from fans. Maximoff even designates an hour to reading his letters and giving shoutouts for kind words on Twitter. In stark contrast, Charlie’s basket is near empty. Ninety-eight percent of what he receives is stuffed into a black, heavy duty trash bag by Oscar. 

My own pile dwindles, though not to the same extent. Beckett is private, despite having grown up in the spotlight and being famed across New York for his talent in ballet. I save the letters and gifts I think he may find most interesting, but most of what he receives isn’t anything he would enjoy. Almost everything would make him uncomfortable, so I trash a good portion with little regret. 

“Do you think I should be throwing this stuff away?” Quinn pipes up, and all heads swivel towards him. He’s holding a package in his hands like he’s afraid it might bite him. The poor kid is always wrestling with indecision, wondering if he’s doing his job the right way. 

Akara asks, “What is it?”

Quinn blanches a little. He’s worried about invading Luna’s privacy by sharing too much information with us. “It’s… Well, Andrew still sends Luna stuff.”

Around the room, interests peak with curiosity. Everyone is curious. They’re wondering if Luna and Andrew are getting back together. I can read it on every inquisitive face. My muscles lock. Luna hasn’t mentioned anything to me about Andrew, even though we talk almost every day via text or during one of our movie nights. I have a hard time believing they’d get back together, but I can’t completely disregard the situation.

“Are they back together?” Oscar quips.

“I don’t think so?” Quinn answers, and his head swings between me and Farrow for confirmation.

Farrow shrugs, but he has that thoughtful face. He’ll tell Moffy everything he’s heard today the second he goes back upstairs. “Maximoff didn’t know last time they were together, so I can’t be sure, but I haven’t heard anything.”

All heads turn to me. I don’t look up, but continue sorting through Beckett’s mail like this conversation couldn’t be any more dull. “They aren’t together,” I say, forcing certainty into my voice. I have no idea if it’s true, but I don’t like everyone speculating about Luna on something that should only be her business. It’s our job to protect Luna, and it was already decided Andrew didn’t pose a threat. “Keep the shit he sends. Let her decide if she wants to trash it or not.”

There’s a small moment of surprised silence. “That’s a good idea,” Quinn finally speaks, but he coughs to hide something in his voice. “Thanks.”

Thatcher edges around a chair. Banks lounges in a chair behind him, both of them sorting through stacks of envelopes side by side. Only now, Thatcher takes a few steps in my direction. It’s probably supposed to be vaguely threatening, but I’ve had Loren Hale spit fire in my face for tattooing his daughter, so Thatcher Moretti isn’t even vaguely scary anymore.

“You spend an awful lot of time with Luna,” he accuses. 

This is the part where I grimace, because obviously I spent a lot of fucking time with Luna. Explaining my friendship with her is growing taxing. I’m annoyed enough with Moffy up my ass every day, and even Beckett has started peppering my day with questions about his cousin. 

I get that everyone’s protective of Luna. The thing that gets me is, all their questions and interrogation tactics mean they don’t trust me with her. I’m rough around the edges. I don’t tidy myself for anyone or anything. I curse more than I should and I’m more crude than anyone particularly needs to be. That image - I know, is the reason Oscar’s family invites Farrow to family functions and conveniently forgets I exist. I’ve accepted that plenty of people will hate me just because my accent is too thick and I don’t censor myself for fucking anyone. 

But right now, I’m surrounded by six people who should know me better than almost anyone, and not one of them looks like they trust me. 

And that fucking grates at me. 

“I spend an awful lot of fucking time with you, too, Moretti,” I force my voice to stay calm through my gritted teeth. “No one thinks we’re fucking, so why is that your assumption about Luna?”

Akara is quick to jump in. Sometimes I wish he wasn’t such a peacekeeper. “Whoa, okay. No one said anything about fucking anyone.”

To my right, I faintly hear Oscar mumble, “We were all thinking it, though.”

That stings. More than it should. Oscar and Farrow - they’re what I’ve got. Normally, I’m fine defending myself. Hell, I’ve basically been on my own my whole damn life. But this trust issues thing, it’s really starting to fucking get to me. 

“We’re friends. End of discussion.” I tell them all. Farrow is eyeing me cautiously from across the room, but he doesn’t say anything. I can’t tell if I’m grateful or pissed off. “Sort your fucking mail so we can all get out of here.”

“Alright, alright.” Oscar raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Maybe we can reapproach this topic tonight at the bar, when everyone is a little drunk and considerably happier.”

He’s trying to lighten the mood, but all I feel is dread at the open invitation to continue this discussion. A night out with my friends sounds great, except for the part where they all accuse me of something I haven’t fucking done. If I’m lucky, they’ll all forget and I’ll be left to enjoy my beers in peace. Though, I’ve never been the luckiest person, and I’ve spent so much time with Luna, I’m fairly certain I have the Hale curse by proxy.

-

I’m late. 

Which isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but today I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was on time because that would mean I didn’t just spend two and a half hours arguing with Beckett Cobalt, lying about how his cocaine habit doesn’t affect me so he won’t have me transferred off his detail. Drained doesn’t even begin to cover the emotion I’m feeling when I push into the bar to greet the rest of SFO.

The routine is already in place. My friends have staked claim to a corner of the bar, dragging two tables together so we all have space to sit. From the looks of the table top, my hour tardy has given them plenty of time to drink themselves under the table. No one looks  _ totally _ hammered yet, but there’s a suspicious amount of  _ giggling _ echoing through the nearly empty establishment. 

I grab a beer before I head over, cracking off the cap and downing half the bottle by the time I take my seat. My face falls into a smile on instinct, my natural reaction to hide my discomfort. Today has been shit on a number of levels, and I’m intent on unwinding without being harassed about why I look like someone just kicked my puppy.

The group chastises me for my lateness, but everyone is in good spirits. Moffy is the only sober one at the table, in typical fashion, but Quinn and Farrow don’t look like they’re anything more than buzzed. It’s not rare for SFO to go out for drinks together, but it’s rare we’re all so open and easy going. Even Thatcher and Banks look like they’re having a good time. 

Our conversations fall into easy routine. Teasing Akara about texting Sulli while he’s off duty. Someone suggesting we play Never Have I Ever before Thatcher reminds us all that we aren’t children. Things are as they should be, a blessing I’m not taking for granted. I shove the Beckett worries to the back of my mind. 

I’ve been at the bar less than an hour when my phone buzzes. I recognize the thrum, something Luna set specifically for herself so I’d know when she was texting me versus anyone else. She also set her ringtone as that song from the X-Files, and I still swear every time I hear it go off.

Someone pelts me with a bottle cap when I pull out my phone, and a grin spreads across my face. Normally, I might be annoyed with their antics, but today it just feels good to be with my friends.

“Come on, Donnelly,” Oscar calls, “you’re off duty. Put the phone away.”

Other voices push in to echo his sentiment, but they quickly fall silent as my grin slowly morphs into a contemplative frown. My eyes flick over my screen, trying to decipher the mishmash of letters and try to put them into a sentence. Fuck. “It’s Luna.”

Across the table, Maximoff’s head snaps up from where he was whispering something in Farrow’s ear. His eyes bore into me, and he looks like he might rip my head off even though I haven’t done anything yet. A few seats over, Quinn looks equally affronted. Though, I’m sure that’s more to do with the fact that something is wrong with his client and I’m the only one in on the secret. Quinn is sensitive about his job, his newbie status always making him think that people are doubting him.

Around the table, I’m met with suspicious stares. It’s been less than thirty seconds, and their over-attentiveness is already grating on my nerves, so I put Luna on speaker as I dial her number. Hopefully, my show of trust will calm everyone for half a fucking second. 

It ends up having the opposite effect. 

Luna says something that sounds like, “I need you to come get me,”  in lieu of hello, but her voice is so slurred it’s hard to be certain. Her typo ridden text message suddenly makes ten times more sense. She’s drunk.

I’m mulling over the potential outcomes of this situation when Moffy attempts to snatch my phone out of my hand. Instinct has me pulling it out of reach, cradling it a little closer to my body. Before I can say anything to defend myself against his venomous stare, he growls something unintelligible at me before calling out words to his sister. “Where are you?”

The silence on the other end isn’t really silent. Luna doesn’t speak, but I can hear a million people yelling in the background, and a crash that sounds sickeningly familiar to broken furniture. Excited screams follow, to the vague sound of chanting. In general, it sounds like bad behavior. So she’s at a party. 

Finally, Luna lets out a dramatic sigh. “Of course you’re with Moffy,” she says, followed by a resounding thump. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she whacked her head back into the wall in frustration. “I guess that means Farrow’s there, too. Hi Farrow! Are you going to yell at me, too?”

Farrow grimaces at her slurred words, but his words are softer than mine would have been. My pulse is high in my ears while he speaks. “No one is going to yell at you, but you need to tell us where you are. Moffy and I will come get you.”

“No.”

The entire table goes rigid. Akara actually chokes on a sip of his beer. Oscar and Quinn wear matching looks of half amusement at Luna’s audacity, and half concern that she’s refusing help. Thatcher stares at me like somehow this entire situation is my fault. But my attention is on Moffy. The poor kid looks like someone just took a baseball bat to his stomach. 

“Lu,” I say calmly, because no one else seems able to find their voice. It takes me a few moments to find mine. Worry is eating a hole in my stomach, but I can’t show it. Luna will shut down the moment she thinks she’s caused any of us any trouble. “Let them come get you. We just need to know where to pick you up.”

“No,” she says again, but her voice has gone small with guilt. It’s even harder to understand her now, but I still strain my ears. “I don’t want Moffy to come get me. He’ll do the worried big brother thing, and then I’ll feel worse than I already do. I don’t want to feel guilty when I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m fine. Nothing happened. I’m just tired and I want my own bed. But I’ll stay here. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Desperately, I want to believe that everything is fine, but I know Luna. I can hear the lie in her voice. And my mind can’t stop turning over her words.  _ I don’t want to feel worse than I already do. _ I clench my fist so tightly it hurts. 

I have a very good idea of who she’s with. Eliot and Tom only have a few consistent haunts, and my time spent as Tom’s bodyguard gives me a good idea of where she could be. But hunting Luna down through seven or eight locations would take too long, especially if she’s this drunk. A manhunt with only aggravate her brother, and Moffy will call in the national guard to find her if this situation drags on too long. The idea doesn’t sit well with me. If we turn this into a big thing, Luna won’t call  _ anyone _ the next time she needs help. I know how Luna feels about being the focus center of concern. It won’t go over well. 

Her voice echoes through the speakers again. “Can you take me off speaker?” 

Half the table looks liable to deck me, but I don’t care. I take her off speaker and press the phone to my ear. “You’re off,” I tell her. 

Luna sniffles, and every muscle in my body constricts. She’s crying. I’m patting my pants for my wallet and keys before she even has the chance to speak. “Luna, where the fuck are you?” 

“I’m fine, I swear,” she rushes to tell me. “It was supposed to be fun, just a party, but Andrew’s here…” 

I almost stand from the table, but if I draw more attention Maximoff will start freaking out even more, and that won’t help Luna at all. Still, my mind is racing with things the little asshole could have done, and sitting still is taking more of my control than I’d like. “Lu…” 

“I’m fine,” Luna says again, but I can hear the thickness of the tears in her voice and I don’t believe her. “It’s not the first time I’ve been called a slut, and it probably won’t be the last.” 

A string of curses flies past my mouth so quickly I can’t stop myself. 

“What’s going on?” Quinn asks, and I can tell he’s worried. Not just because Luna is his client. I know he cares about her. He’s a buddyguard if I ever saw one, second only to Akara. “I haven’t drank much. I can go get her.”

It strikes me, ironically, that I’m the most sober person here, aside from Moffy. Normally, I’d be drunk off my ass singing in the streets by now. I’ve never been so grateful to be late in my life. 

“Paul, speak,” Thatcher barks, and I can tell what he’s going to say next. The use of my first name grates on my nerves. “She’s a client, and if something is going on, then we need to call someone on the force to intervene.” 

Luna hears. “Please don’t tell them,” she murmurs the plea at the same time that I turn to Thatcher and snap, “Last I checked, I wasn’t on duty. So don’t try to fucking give me orders right now.”

Akara sucks in a harsh breath. “Donnelly,” he starts gently, even though he’s shaking his head with disapproval. He’s always the peacekeeper, but right now I don’t care to follow his instruction. 

My pulse is skyrocketing, anxiety eating at my stomach. Luna called me for help, and here I am arguing with my friends when I should be with her right now. Whatever anyone says about our friendship, however much they disapprove, anyone and everyone at this table should know I’m fucking worried about the girl.

Moffy slants me a glare so fierce that if I hadn’t spent so much time in the company of Rose Cobalt, I’d shrink away, but compared to Rose, he still looks like a puppy. “What that fuck is wrong with you? She’s my sister, you asshole. I have a right to know what’s going on.”   
  
“Donnelly…” Oscar starts, but trails off. I know he probably wants to defend me, but doesn’t see how he can.

All their commentary and bitching and accusations finally takes its toll. I snap, blood rushing and heart pounding with too much sick worry to deal with their bullshit for another minute. “Shut up. Everyone just shut the fuck up,” I snarl to my friends. Their appalled expressions only grate further on my nerves. I look directly at Maximoff as I speak to Luna, daring him to press the issue. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. Just me.”

“Do you promise?”   
  
“I promise.”

Moffy’s face falls. I know it’s from hurt that his sister didn’t want his help, but right now I don’t care. Farrow can smooth over the famous one’s hurt feelings. Moffy isn’t my responsibility, and he’s not the one I’m worried about. 

“I’ll text you the address.” She hangs up.

I stand from the table, blood pooling in hot pockets of anger under my skin. I know what my job is, and I know everyone around me thought they were doing theirs, but I can’t keep my anger locked in. My filter has never been great in the first place, and my emotions are too heightened right now to even bother trying to bottle them in. I sweep the entire table in a glare. 

“I’d be halfway to getting her home right now if you all could have just fucking trusted me.”

Oscar calls out to me as I turn away from the table. “Donnelly, come on man.”

“Fuck you guys.” I don’t bother to turn back around. My phone buzzes with a text from Luna, and I don’t even think about the consequences of my actions as I push my way out of the bar and head towards my car.

-

The house I pull up to on the outskirts of Philly is a nightmare. Not because there’s anything wrong with it, in terms of structural integrity or aesthetic appeal. What’s nightmarish is that I can feel the base of a song thumping before I shut my car off, and there are more bodies crowding the lawn than there are paparazzi staked outside the gated neighborhood the Famous Ones live in. And then there’s the most comical nightmare.

Tom Carraway Cobalt is standing on the roof, a road flare in one hand and a megaphone in the other.

“Donno!” He calls, catching sight of me. His grin is wicked; the kind of smile that could convince people to wage wars in his honor. I’d expect nothing less from a Cobalt. My eyes narrow, assessing him quickly, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just fucking crazy. “Are you here to wreck the fun?”

I don’t bother dragging anything out. “No, but if you don’t get off that roof, I might.”

Tom rolls his eyes dramatically, a theatrical move that makes me wonder where his partner in crime, Eliot, is off to, but crouches down like he might actually listen to me. 

“Where’s Luna?”

“Probably inside. She looked like she was having fun last I saw her.” Cobalts are crazy smart, and I can actually see Tom putting all the pieces together in his head. His wild grin turns into a deep frown, and I almost feel a twinge of guilt, but my feet are itching to pull me inside. “She’s not having fun.” It isn’t a question.

“I’m gonna take her home. She’ll be fine, don’t worry. Just drank too much,” I add a nonchalant shrug, hoping to remain as casual as possible. It’s Luna’s deal if she wants to share with her cousins. Tom and Eliot may be her best friends, but I get the feeling if she didn’t ask one of them to take her home, then she’s probably not wanting them to know. “I’m going inside to get her, and if you’re not off the roof by the time I get back, you can choose whether I call your bodyguard or Moffy to come get your ass down.”

Tom visibly grimaces. His bodyguard is the most boring bastard I’ve ever met, and Moffy will go into super-cousin mode, agonizing over weighing whether Tom’s fun is allowed to broach on his safety. “Message received.”

He’s down before I make it to the front door, gripping the edge of the gutter and dropping elegantly to his feet like he’s done it a million times before. I narrowly avoid a grin. 

Tom has always been a wild child, the God of Chaos no doubt lives over his shoulder. Being his bodyguard was harder than being Beckett’s, because Beckett wants me around. At first, with Tom, he’d do anything to ditch me and go off getting into trouble. It took a long time for Tom to trust me, and it’s clear he doesn’t trust his new bodyguard yet. I don’t know how Tom, Eliot, and Luna all managed to go out without anyone being the wiser, but it does suggest something similar to incompetence. If I wasn’t fond of Quinn, I’d have half a mind to report this, and get them all fired. 

We fall into step together, weaving our way through the packed house. The entire place smells like skunk weed and cheap booze. Not one person I catch sight of looks old enough to have supplied the alcohol. This is one of those after high school parties that still hasn’t quite hit college level - a soft edge of youth and innocence remaining despite obvious debauchery. Bodies are everywhere, dancing to what I recognize as one of the Carraways’ new songs. I flick Tom a look, and he flashes me another signature grin. “Promotional party,” he explains. “We just released a new EP.”

“How many copies have you sold?”

“About four times the number we projected. If sales stay steady, this will be our biggest release yet.”

I can hear his father in his voice. Each Cobalt is unique, all of them talented and brilliant at different things, but they’ve all retained a small piece of Connor Cobalt. They all know business. There’s never been any doubt in my mind that the Cobalt empire would take over the world one day. It’s part of why I requested their detail when I joined the security force. I wanted to be around to watch them rise.

“Send a copy my way,” I tell him. “I’ll have a second rebirth listening to it.”

“Damn right you will,” Tom laughs, clapping me on the back. “It’s good to have you back, Donno.”

“I’m not really back. I’m still on Beckett’s detail.”

Tom flashes me a look, one that says I’m clearly an idiot. In the company of Cobalts, I’ve never doubted I was anything but. “If you’re with Luna,” he says slowly, “you’re with us. You’re back.”

There’s no use replying to his comment. Not when I have no idea what the hell the kid is talking about. We continue our search together, my nerves fraying more and more by the minute. Luna isn’t answering any of Tom’s calls, and my phone buzzes with too many incoming calls from Maximoff and SFO for me to try calling her either. 

If I’m being real, I’m about five minutes away from completely and utterly losing my shit when Tom and I finally breach the stairs to the second floor of the house, and my eyes fall on familiar green marker.

Eliot and Luna sit side by side in the hall, stumbling teens barely dodging their outstretched legs. My stomach does a complicated twist at the sight of them. Eliot is calm, some form of play script in one hand while he gesticulates dramatically with the other. Luna is smiling blandly at whatever he’s saying, and I get the distinct notion he’s trying his best to cheer her up.

Only, any one of us knows that it’s not working. Luna’s gaze is far away, focused in the distance on absolutely nothing at all. Unlike her cousins, her complete and utter lack of sobriety shows clear on her face. Though, it looks like she’s come down from the fun aspects of being trashed, and has been left with spins and discomfort.

“Jesus Christ, Lu.” I growl, jogging my way up the last few stairs and to her side. Tom is close behind me and we crouch down together.

Eliot pauses his monologue, looking relieved. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, but extends his hand with a grin. We do a complicated handshake, something the three of them taught me back when I was on Tom’s detail. “She’s not doing too great.”

“ _ She _ is right here, and  _ she _ is fine,” Luna grumbles, but her responding grimace tells me otherwise. A hand rises to her temple, and she presses her palm against it like she can physically force the discomfort away. But she smiles at the three of us, albeit a bit sadly. “All my favorite boys, in one place.”

Tom lets out a snort of a laugh, and Eliot smiles broadly. I’m careful not to react. 

“Can you stand up?” I ask Luna, but I look to Eliot.

Eliot shakes his head. “Tried that. I thought maybe going outside would help, but she’s too off balance. No way she’ll make is down the stairs.”

My hands travel up to my hair, fingers fisting in the short strands with frustration. This has been a very long, very complicated day. All manner of shitstorms are likely to spring up in the next few hours, centered around the three cousins before me. The lack of bodyguards,the underage drinking and the fact that I effectively gave my boss the  _ fuck you finger _ less than an hour ago are all not going to go over well. 

I let loose a heavy, heavy sigh. “Alright, here’s the deal.” 

My voice is more bitter than I intend for it to be, and I force myself to soften it when Luna’s face falls like I’ve reprimanded her. I offer an apologetic smile, edging forward and shifting so I can lift her under the knees. She sighs happily when I’ve bundled her against my chest, her arms wrapping around my neck. There’s a complicated flutter in my chest that I choose to ignore. 

“I’m going to take Luna home. You two have a twenty minute head start before I have SFO call your bodyguards. Sorry to wreck the party, but I’d rather not have your dad remove my balls.”

The two boys nod, and I’m grateful they’ve accepted this without complaint. With one hand carefully holding Luna against me, I give them both a handshake in goodbye, and head down the stairs and outside without another word. Luna holds tightly to my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. I hold her tightly until we reach the car, still parked at the curb where I leftit. No visible damage from the drunk hellions surrounding us. 

Very carefully, I situate Luna in the passenger seat, leaning across to buckle her in when she struggles on her own. We’re both quiet when I climb into the driver’s side, and neither of us breaks the silence until a few minutes after I’ve pulled away from the party house, when the buzzing of my phone finally pisses me off enough to drag it from my pocket.

Maximoff’s name flashes on my caller ID, and it joins the 23 other missed calls cluttering my contact list when I hit decline. “For fuck’s sake,” I let out a grumble and toss my phone into the back seat. “You should call your brother. I think he might be about to contact the national guard.” 

Luna lets out a hiccuping sigh, and drags her phone from her pocket. Rather than calling, she types out a text, then throws her phone over her shoulder to rest beside mine, comfortably out of sight. “I told him I was with you and I was fine.”

She’s quiet again for just a moment. “I’m really sorry.”

“For what?”

“I heard, on the phone. That they were mad at you.” There’s so much guilt in her voice that it eats at me. And then she says again, “I’m sorry. I know you guys have a trust thing.”

I shake my head. This is not something I want her worrying about. I made my own decision, as stupid as it may have been. SFO’s lack of trust in me is their problem. “Don’t be sorry. They need to calm the fuck down and untwist their panties.”

“It’s okay that they’re mad,” she sighs, sinking against the window and closing her eyes. I roll my own window down slightly, despite the cold and the beginning trickles of rain, hoping the fresh air will help ease some of her spins. “They were worried about me. They just wanted to make sure I was okay.”

I hate that she’s making herself feel bad about this. One look at her, just one brief glance, and I can tell she’s in pain. Not just from Andrew being a dickweed at the party, and not just from the after effects of her overdoing the Jungle Juice. She’s wracked with guilt, worrying about what Moffy and everyone else will say to her about refusing their help. I just want her to worry about herself right now. Sometimes, she’s too much like her brother for her own good. 

“Don’t feel fucking bad, Lu. You didn’t make an unreasonable request.” I tell her, “They’re fucking idiots for thinking I’d ever let anything happen to you.”

She’s quiet for minute, and I almost roll her window down, thinking she might be sick, when she finally speaks. “I know you wouldn’t,” Luna murmurs, but she doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes closed, face turned away so I can’t catch a glimpse of her expression unless I look away from the road. “That’s why I called you, and not Quinn. I trusted you to do what I needed, and not what my brother would want.”

Luna has no idea, but she’s just said the one thing I wanted to hear today. That someone trusted me. Inexplicably and unconditionally. She knew I would come through, that I would look out for her, protect her. As long as she knows that, I don’t give a shit what everyone else thinks. In this equation, Luna’s opinion is the only one I care about. 


	5. Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'ma just forewarn y'all rn that there is smut involved in this chapter so buckle your seat belts and get ready for a wild run (pun not intended).  
> This chapter is also dedicated to my lovely friend Dee, who has been waiting for it's release since I started even contemplating the idea of posting this fic online.

After the trainwreck of picking Luna up from Tom’s party, our friendship is somehow granted permission amongst SFO and Moffy. If I’m off duty, we usually end up sitting in the living room of the townhouse, watching a documentary on UFOs or something one of Luna’s siblings recommended her. Farrow and Moffy have finally stopped looking like they might strangle me if I breathe wrong, and come to accept my presence in the famous one’s townhouse and at Luna’s side without anymore complaint. So long as I don’t slack off on my job, and I still find time for drinks with SFO, and workouts at Studio 9, no one seems to care too much if I veg on the couch with Luna for a few hours once a week. 

Mostly, we talk about Luna’s stories or she’ll watch me break out a sketch pad, but some days, like today, she’s feeling a bit more open, and we delve into her person life. I’ve learned more about her relationship with her parents, cousins, and siblings in the past three weeks than I did in the entirety of the tour, even though we were all crammed on that bus together like sardines in a can. 

Today, however, we’ve breached a topic she usually shuts down quickly. Andrew.

“So why did you date that loser anyways?” I ask Luna. Both of us know I’m not paying attention to the movie anyways, and the question has been nagging me for awhile. Luna told everyone her and Andrew ‘wanted different things’, but I can’t shake the feeling there was more than that. 

Luna turns away from her laptop, dropped on the coffee table in front of us. For a long moment, she examines my expression, before deciding it’s safe to answer my question. “I took your advice,” she says simply. “If he wants to date a basic bitch, he can date a basic bitch. If I want to get head, I’ll get it somewhere else. He wasn’t good enough for me to stick around.”

Involuntarily, I let out a scoff. “I don’t care how good of head a guy gives, if he wants you to dress like some preppy bitch we both know you aren’t, dump him.”

She rolls her eyes, but crosses her legs in a telling way. I’m careful not to react as she speaks. “A girl has needs, so unless you’re going to re-extend your offer, I’ll take what I can get.”

“My offer?”

Luna raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything, waiting for my memory to catch up with itself. When it does, I realize she must be referring to the comment about eating her out, back when I wanted her to break up with Andrew. Right. Shit.  “Oh, that.”

Her face visibly contorts, her expression losing it’s openness. “That’s what I thought,” she mutters, in a voice that’s close to a snap. “So maybe keep your opinions on my sex life to yourself. Just because you don’t find me appealing -”

I cut her off before she can even finish the sentence, mentally cursing myself for pissing her off, even if it was unintentional. “Come on, Lunar, don’t be mad. You know I didn’t mean it like that.” My voice is a resigned sigh, and I find myself running my hands through my hair in frustration. The movie keeps playing on Luna’s laptop, but we’ve both forgotten it. “It’s just. You’re -”

“A kid? Moffy’s baby sister?” She snaps, and I can see the hurt brimming in her eyes when she flicks me a glance. I know how much she hates being treated like she’s different from her brother and older cousins. “Yeah, I know.”

“A  _ client _ ,” I correct her. “I shouldn’t have said that in the first place. I have no filter. Your brother almost had me by the balls.”

“My brother is  _ not _ my keeper,” she hisses, and finally turns toward me again. I can see her struggling to contain her emotions, to calm down before this turns into a full blown argument. 

Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth, her eyes closed as she tries to breathe. Some of her hair has escaped from it’s ponytail, the shorter strands creeping into her face and tangling with her eyelashes. When her chest rises and falls with a deep breath, her collarbones create a tantalizing ridge, sharp and unbearably sexy. There’s nothing about Luna that’s unattractive to me. If I didn’t love my job, and if we weren’t friends, I would have gone there a long time ago. But I have to ignore the way looking at her tightens something low in my stomach.

“I know,” I tell her softly.

When she opens her eyes, they’re no longer glassy, but they still hold a hint on vulnerability. “I’m not a kid,” she whispers. 

“I know,” I say again.

I ache to touch her, but I know I can’t. Attraction aside, Moffy, Farrow, and Jane are upstairs, and the last thing I want is to fuck up whatever tentative friendship Luna and I have been building. I actually like the girl, and I don’t want to get her hopes up for something that’s never going to happen. I’ve never been big on relationships. I just really like sex.

Luna drifts her eyes closed again, her breath hitching just slightly in apprehension. She doesn’t open her eyes, like she’s scared of my answer, when she murmurs, “If we were in a book, what would happen next?”

This is a dangerous game we’re playing. Depending on how I answer, I either piss her off again, or tip us closer to the edge of the cliff of sexual tension we’re dangling over. I know I should refuse to play along, but my self control has never been all that great.

“If we were a book,” I say, watching her expression carefully, “we’d kiss, and then we’d fuck, and then we’d make some popcorn and finishing this fucking movie. And then, because you’re you, there’d probably be some shit to do with alien goddesses or an exterrestrial super virus we have to find a way to cure.”

She laughs a little at that, and I’m so fucking relieved to see a hint of a smile on her lips. Luna still doesn’t open her eyes, but she scoots on her knees closer to me on the couch, until her knees are pressed against my thigh. “You know what the best thing about books is?” She asks.

“What?”

When her eyes finally open, there’s a hint of a challenge in them. That mischievous look that normally only comes out when she’s with her best friends, Eliot and Tom, and they’re about raise some kind of hell. 

Luna crawls into my lap, her knees on either side of my waist. I know I should stop her, that I should pick her up and set her back onto the other couch cushion, but when my hands settle on her waist to push her back, they tighten but make no other move. She’s slow putting her hands on me, eyes flicking across my face cautiously for any sign of rejection, but her left hand settles on my chest eventually, her right curling around my neck until her fingers slip into my hair. We’re close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats; so close I can feel the heat of her desire radiating from her skin. 

“Every story,” she whispers, leaning in slowly, “starts from a grain of truth.”

And then our lips are pressed, and it’s all fucking over from there. 

My hands tighten on her waist. As the kiss deepens, and our tongues clash, she grinds her waist down on top of me, and there’s no containing my groan at that sensation. Our bodies are tight with the tension of this moment, pent up over weeks of casual movies and thinly veiled sexual innuendos I never expected to turn into something more. 

“Luna -” I try to gasp her name over the kiss, and I can feel her grin spread against my mouth as she hears the strain in my voice. “We really can’t-”

“We really can,” she murmurs against my mouth, but pulls back so I can see her eyes. She looks  _ alive _ , her cheeks already tinged red and her lips swollen from their pressure against mine. “Don’t make it weird. It’s sex, not a marriage proposal. It can be a one time thing. Unless we like it.”

God, her every sentence is drumming my pulse harder. “And what,” I growl as her lips find my neck, teeth teasing the skin just behind my ear, “happens if we like it?”

“Then we do it again.”

“Your brother -”

“Is probably banging Farrow three ways into Sunday,” she sighs, pulling back again. The absence of her body heat against me is an affront, and I tighten my hand on her waist to near bruise strength so she doesn’t pull away. “Be quiet, and we won’t have a problem. Now, do you want to keep talking about my brother or do you want to have sex with me?”

I withhold my answer, using my grip on her waist to grind her down hard against me. A wave of triumph and arousal runs through me when she gasps, this small, blissful sound. My hands wander, tracing down her bare thighs before slipping up under the cotton fabric of her pajama shorts. 

Swiftly, I flip us around, so her pelvis is pinned against mine on the couch, and my arms create a cage around her head. “Definitely the latter,” I take her lip between my teeth, tugging back until her back arches with pleasure. When she’s sufficiently distracted, I slip a hand under the hem of her shorts, cupping her over her panties. Her moan when I find the wetness already pooled is so sexy I almost lose my fragile hold on control, but teasing this out is too appealing to pass up. “But I think, you’re going to be the one who needs to worry about keeping quiet.”

With my words, I slip her panties to the side, plunging two fingers into her and pumping quickly. Her hips rise in response, pushing my fingers in deeper. Her hands come up to my chest, and for a terrifying moment as she pushes against me, I think she’s going to tell me to stop, but she only pushes us into a sitting position, straddling my lap with my fingers still inside her, and buries her head into the crook of my neck to smother her moans. Her nails dig into my forearms, creating brutal half moons in my flesh as she rocks her hips, creating her own rhythm. 

Feeling her rock her body on top of me is an undoing, and the tightness of my jeans over my cock is suffocating in a deliciously torturous way. With my free hand, I grip her waist again, holding her steady while my thumb flicks figure eights over her clit, building her up into ecstasy until she unravels, pulsing around my fingers and smothering her moan by pressing a deep, hungry kiss against my mouth. 

“Holy shit,” Luna breathes, taking in unsteady gulps of air. I can tell by the look on her face that the ‘good head’ she was getting from Andrew wasn’t nearly as good as my fingers made her feel. I’d be a hell of a lot more smug if I wasn’t close to straining out of my jeans.

I give her ass a quick slap, releasing my hold on her waist so she can scramble off my lap. “Up,” I command, then reach out to tug suggestively at her shorts. “Off.”

Her lips quirk in a grin, and while I hurry to unbutton my jeans, she slides her shorts off slowly, dragging out the gesture into something far more sensual than should be allowed when I can’t take her against a wall. When her shorts are gone, and my pants lost somewhere on the living room, I sit again, pulling her towards me. There’s a spaceship on the front of her cotton panties,  with a little caption that says OUT OF THIS WORLD. 

Luna to breathless, threading her fingers into my hair as I kiss the outside of her hips, just above the band of her underwear. Her fingers tighten as I move, mouthing my way over and down until her grip on my hair is next to savage. When I’m satisfied with the teasing, I take the fabric between my teeth and tug swiftly, using my hands only when I’ve drug her panties past the rise of her thighs.

“No fair,” Luna gasps, eyes wide but glazed over with desire. She gestures to my briefs, still on, and I stand to pull them down. Her eyes widen more when I drop them to the floor, trailing over me with an extra hitch in her breath. “Fuck, really not fair. Do you want me to -”

“No,” I say quickly, before she can offer to reciprocate foreplay. Any other day, I’d love to have her mouth wrapped around me, but I’m too pent up to think beyond burying myself in her. “I don’t need you to. I just need to grab -”

“A condom?” She grins so broad, the goofy one that shrinks her eyes and shows nearly all her teeth, self satisfied knowing watching her cum was more than enough to get me in the mood. But her hand travels up, dipping into her bra and returning with a foil packet. 

I raise my brows, questioningly, while she rips open the package and steps forward. There’s a part of me that wants to ask her if she planned this, but I’m not sure that I should. I don’t want to embarrass her, or close her off in any way. Everything about her tonight is bold, confident, and assured in the sexiest way. It’s the biggest turn on out of everything she’s done. Not a chance in hell am I risking taking that way. 

Instead, I let her inch forward, keeping my gaze even as she grips me and slides the condom on in one smooth motion. “Sit down,” she whispers, and my eyes widen as I realize her intention. Fucking hell. I can’t even think to argue before my body is following her command. 

Luna crawls into my lap again, wrapping her arms across my shoulders and hovering above my crotch. I slip a hand between us, positioning myself to push into her, but waiting for her to make the move. I don’t know if this is something she’s done before, or if she’s feigning confidence, and I don’t want to hurt her. Worries aside, feeling the heat of her so close to my cock and forcing myself not to move might be my cause of death.

Her lips capture mine again, moving slower this time, less hungry and more determined. When she sinks down, nudging the tip of my cock into her entrance, an adorable squeak escapes her lips that has me laughing into her kiss. “Shut up,” she gasps, cheeks flushing. “Or I’ll go upstairs and leave you here to finish yourself.”

Involuntarily, my hands move to grip her thighs possessively. “You wouldn’t.”

She smiles into my mouth. “You’re right. I wouldn’t,” she murmurs, dropping down fully until I’m buried in her. Her eyes flutter closed in pleasure, but she manages a sly grin when I unleash a string of quiet curses at the feel of her. “Not when I can make you do that.” 

The challenge in her tone is emanate, so I buck my hips into her in a deep thrust. Her responding moan is edging on loud enough to wake her family, and her eyes widen before she dips her head to my shoulder and  _ bites _ . 

“Fuck!” I groan, clenching my teeth to keep my voice at a reasonable volume. 

Her bite doesn’t hurt, but it stirs my arousal to a new level, and any plans I had to draw this out fly out the fucking window as I set a relentless pace. Her nails run up and down my back in scratches, seeking purchase, and she continues to moan into my shoulder, still biting, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to leave one hell of a mark, as I build us both to our peak. When I hit that spot, and she releases around me with a flutter of nerves, I unravel.

We’re both drowning in pleasure, sinking in an abyss we may not return from. I stay inside of her for a few long moments as we catch our breath, before she starts to giggle. My eyes widen in pleasant surprise, and she pulls herself away from my shoulder to meet my eyes. Her hair is plastered to her head with sweat, her skin flushed and eyes bright. She’s sexy enough to stir me again, but I know there’s no way we can risk a round two when anyone could walk in and find us. 

After a few failed attempts at controlling her fit of laughter, Luna finally manages to squeak out, “We just had sex on Jane’s ugly couch. I  _ hate _ this couch.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, brushing some fly away hairs out of her face and joining in her laugh. “I’m kind of fond of it now.”

Together, we burst into a fit of giggles, before she pulls herself away from me and starts to pull on her clothes. My eyes follow her every movement, even as she tosses me my briefs and jeans. “Where are you off to?”

She gives me a light look, amused. “To make popcorn,” she answers, a tease in her tone. “So we can finishing this fucking movie.”

I nod approvingly, grinning hard as she walks away and I start pulling on my own clothes. A rush of relief hits me when I realize our having slept together really isn’t going to make things weird. We’ve slipped back into our friendly banter within a matter of minutes, and I think about what Luna said, how if we enjoyed it we’d do it again. 

There’s a voice in my head, warning me not to tempt fate, that the more we do this the more likely we are we are to get caught. Yet, I call out to Luna anyways. “Did you mean what you said?” I ask her, even though I can’t quite see her from my spot on the couch. “About making this a regular thing?”

Silence stretches for a long time, and I’m suddenly nervous I’ve said the wrong thing and pissed her off. But then she reenters the room, a giant bowl of popcorn in hand, and plops down beside me with an easy grin. “Yeah, I meant it. But I think I said if we  _ both _ enjoyed it, we’d do it again.” Luna only pauses for a beat, meeting my amused face before laughing again. “Kidding, kidding. But it can’t be like this every time. I don’t want Moffy and Jane finding out.”

We agree, easily. There’s quiet talk of the when’s and where’s, if she could get away with showing up to my apartment without Quinn in tow. When we’ve managed to fit together a vague plan, we return to the movie, some ridiculous horror flick Kinney recommended, and lapse back into comfortable silence. When Maximoff comes down a half hour late for some water, he’s none the wiser, and I realize we might actually get away with this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so one major thing here: I know this was a huge jump from 0 to 100 real quick. The timeline elapsed from chapter 1 to chapter 5 is near two months, but it really is hard to capture that on page. I would have loved to drag this slow burn out for another five chapters, but due to the length of the fic, and the time spent working on other stories, I just didn't quite have the amount of time I wanted.  
> That being said, I hope everyone is enjoying the story, and that you're all excited about the next ten chapters to come!


	6. Luna

 

Donnelly’s apartment is somehow everything and nothing like what I expected it to be. For the six weeks we’ve been sneaking around, I’ve somehow managed to never make it past the front door of this apartment building. I never pictured myself as a public sex kind of girl, but the townhouse seemed like too much of a risk, and breaching the boundary of entering Donnelly’s world felt… Well, intimate. 

For having seen each other naked more times than I can count on two hands, it seems strange that this small step would seem so significant, but it does. Still, here I stand.

Being in his space, in this oddly intimate moment, creates a whirlpool of emotion in my stomach. I’ve grown accustomed to nothing in my life truly being private, but I still understand the significance of this moment. The strange relationship between us is made so much more real by seeing his life outside of his responsibilities with SFO. The more time I spend with Donnelly, the more I realize how much of his life there still is to discover. He’s a story written in code, and I’m anxious to create a cipher. 

Breaching the threshold, I almost let out a laugh, because the first thing I see is a giant Carraways poster hung behind the couch, Tom’s signature scrawled across the bottom in metallic silver sharpie. I remember when Tom gave it to him, the night of the first  **big** Carraways concert. Donnelly was so giddy with pride, I’m not at all surprised to see it framed and given a place of honor in the living room. Seeing it warms me in a way I can’t quite describe. It feels right that a piece of my family should be front and center in Donnelly’s home, when so much of him is so firmly entwined with who we are. 

But other things call out to me about his space. The rough brick wall in the kitchen, scattered pictures of SFO haphazardly magnetized to the fridge, comics littering the coffee table. A Sorin-X figurine on the windowsill. My eyes are drawn to the tarp covering half of the living room floor, an easel perched by the open window. Painting and drawings and art supplies are everywhere. Donnelly’s apartment is an explosion of color and imagery and framed scribbles. It’s  _ Donnelly _ in every way I could ever think to explain. 

For a moment, it almost distracts me from why we’re here, the wonder of being let into this private world I never thought I would see. But I’m giddy with anxiety, so it doesn’t captivate me as long as I’d want it to.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” my words come out small and pitched, and Donnelly turns over his shoulder from shuffling equipment and comics out of the way on the coffee table to grin at me and laugh. He loves that I’m this unraveled.

“You said you wanted to learn.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to let me learn on  _ you _ . What if I mess up?”

That’s the real worry here. I made one off handed comment, tracing over one of the inked lines on Donnelly’s stomach while we caught our breath in the backseat of his car, about wanting to learn how to tattoo, and his solution is this. Hand me a tattoo gun, and let me practice on one of the rare pieces of clean skin he has left. 

Donnelly shrugs nonchalantly, as if this is a totally normal experience, nothing to worry about. “I practiced on myself,” he tells me, “so I have plenty of janky tattoos already. Besides, it’s not just about the art. It’s about the experience. The memory of why you have the piece.”

A shiver crawls up my spine. This is permanent. If we do this, a piece of me will be tied to him forever. The writer in me that romanticizes everything is made selfishly gleeful by this idea. What we have, what we’re doing, I know it’s fleeting. Donnelly might be my best friend right now, but friendships don’t last forever. I like the idea that someday, when we’re old and gray and have forgotten each other’s faces, that a piece of me will still be entwined with him. 

“You want to be reminded of me forever?”

Donnelly shrugs again. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

My smile creeps across my face, so bright and brilliant that it spreads to Donnelly’s face as well. This is crazy and wild and unconventional. And that’s why we both love it so much. When I think about who we are, in our heart of hearts, beyond just what everyone wants to see, there’s nothing ordinary there. Donnelly and I - we’re as one of a kind as anyone can get. If I had to put my money on it, I’d say Donnelly graced Thebula before I did. 

Getting situated is a longer process than I expected. Donnelly is a surprising in-depth teacher, explaining each piece of equipment and what it’s for, how it works and how I should hold it. A few times, I’m distracted by the way his hands fit over mine, positioning my fingers over the tattoo gun and showing me proper form. My fingers are dwarfed by his, his entire hand enveloping mine until I can’t even see my own skin. His palms are calloused and rough, and goosebumps coat my arms when they glide across the top of my hands. 

Finally, he sits back, and I take a moment to absorb the tattoo gun in my hand, his leg stretched across my lap so I can reach a stretch of bare skin close to his ankle. We’ve already gone over the design, a small spaceship levitating a Wawa sign underneath it. I made Donnelly draw a cleaner version of my sketch, but it’s something clearly I would choose. I’m surprised he let me.

“Can we do a trade?” I ask suddenly, not letting myself bow the tattoo gun to flesh just yet.

Donnelly barely looks up from the sketchpad on his stomach. “What kind of trade?”

“If I ink you, you have to write me a fic.”

 

**Paul:**

Luna is smiling as she holds the tattoo gun, this big ridiculous thing that makes me want to kiss her even though that’s not something we’re allowed. I love when she gets like this; totally unbridled by expectation, shamelessly weird and unique. I've never met anyone else so comfortable in their own skin. “If I ink you, you have to write me a fic in return.”

I consider this for a moment. I’m not much of a writer, but I’ve read enough of her stuff to have a decent idea on how to go about it. “Alright deal,” I tell her. “Something extraterrestrial.”

She smiles again, but then it fades. Watching that smile leave her face is like diving underwater and not knowing the next time you're going to reach the surface. Tentatively, she says, “Will you do me a favor?” I nod. I’d do anything she asked. God, only six weeks of fooling around and I’m already so whipped for this girl it's almost disgusting. “When you write me, make me something more.”

The tightness in her voice pulls something in my stomach. My hand moves a little closer to hers across the couch, abandoning my sketch for a moment in favor of providing her some semblance of comfort if I can.  “More than what?” 

She meets my gaze. Luna’s eyes are tinged with the closest thing I’ve seen to sadness in her expression since the car accident that nearly killed her brother. “More than just a famous one,” she admits, a lump in her throat. “I want to be more than just my name.”

This, more than anything, is what hurts to hear her say. I want her smile to come back, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes the little spaceship sticker on her cheekbone look like it's about to fall off. I want us both to come up for air, but we’re drowning in this moment and as long as I can speak before our lungs collapse, maybe that's okay. 

“I'd write you exactly as you are,” I tell her.

Luna lifts an eyebrow, a flash of curiosity in her gaze. “And what's that?” She asks me, and there’s a challenge in her tone. “What am I?”

It’s my turn to smile. “Something more,” I tell her, as if that's the only truth either of us need, because it is. 

Her cheeks tinge pink, and the smile that captures her face is different from so many of the others I’ve seen. This one is rare and shy and light in a way that I don’t normally associate with her. It occurs to me in this moment that most people don’t have the forethought or resolve to talk to her like this.

I’ve always struggled to understand the famous ones - how they can have so much in life and still feel like they’re missing things. But I see it now. In Luna’s doubt. In how she needs reassurance to understand how unique she is, and how that’s a good thing. 

Both of us, we’ve spent much of our lives being the outcasts. My tattoos and crass attitude have always set me apart, and Luna’s green marker and alien wardrobe made her different in a way most people were afraid to accept. I spent my life not caring what most people thought because I had Oscar and Farrow at my back, and that was enough. I’d thought maybe Luna felt the same about Tom and Eliot, but I see now that maybe she’s always wanted more than that. 

Maybe she just wants someone to look at her the way I am right now. Like her last name doesn’t matter. Like who her family is and how she got her start in the world have nothing to do with why I enjoy her company. My pull to Luna has everything to do with the better parts of me that she brings out, and nothing to do with the publicity that could come from standing at her side. 

“Get to it,” I tell her, pulling us both back from our thoughts. “Before I lose my nerve.”

Luna quirks an eyebrow at me, but turns the tattoo gun on and leans over the purple template already pasted on my leg. “Paul Donnelly? Nervous? Never.”

My fingers still move across the page, my eyes occasionally flicking up to Luna as I draw. It’s become a habit to sketch her when we’re together. I never pick my pen up off the page, letting her features pull through shadows and negative space. Capturing the wildness of her hair, the little sticker on her cheekbone, and the contours of her face has become a repeated challenge. Luna never looks quite the same, so every drawing has a personality of its own, while still being unmistakably  _ her _ . 

I scrunch up my nose. “Don’t call me Paul,” I tell her gently. She’s pressing a needle into my skin currently, so it’s probably best not to piss her off. “You know I hate it.”

Luna laughs but doesn’t look up. “What if I only call you Paul during sex? Would that make it better?” 

I open my mouth to say no, absolutely not, but something twists low in my stomach. Embarrassment doesn’t capture me easily, but a tinge of it strikes me as I realize I’m a little turned on by the prospect of her using my first name. “Maybe.”

“That means yes.”

Both of us laugh, and we fall into a comfortable silence. While Luna focuses on my tattoo, I finish the sketch and begin scribbling the story I promised her in the free space around the drawing. It’s comfortable in a way I am with very few people. Comfortable in a way I never expected to be with a girl in my apartment who I wasn’t ushering out the door the next morning. This is something completely new for me. Wanting someone around after the sex, enjoying them and trusting them enough to leave a permanent mark on my skin - it’s a feeling I never thought I would want.


	7. Paul

**** Things are getting complicated. And not in the usual bullshit sense that comes from being tied to the famous ones. In fact, the drama has been so minimal we’re all on our toes, waiting for the next bomb to drop. Among SFO and the attached clients, there’s a heavy mood. It’s the silence in the theater before a horror movie begins, when all is still calm but you know it can’t last. Every last one of us is hovering at the edge of our seats, waiting for something we cannot see, and knowing in our bones will come. 

It makes today different from most days. The older famous ones, they’ve always been close in a way I know people envy. Cousins is a term that’s severely fucking lacking in intensity to what every last one of us in SFO can see. All of them take family to a level I’ve never known or understood. Discomfort, pain, joy - it ripples from one to the next like dominos. Like they’re one big complicated system of trees, seeming separate at the surface but tangled and connected at every conceivable inch underground.

Everyone is in the townhouse today. And by everyone, I mean every cousin over the age of 18, and every member of SFO. There’s hardly room to move, barely air to breathe with so many bodies packed into such a small space, but I don’t mind it. Everyone I give a damn about is packed into this space. And despite the shit people think of me, I’m made happier by their joy in our close proximity than I am by just about anything else in life.

Oscar’s laughter echoes out from the living room, bright as always while he teases his little brother about everything under the sun. Moffy and Farrow are out there too, probably where I last saw them, perched at the windowsill while they watch everyone else, Moffy enraptured with his family’s happiness, and Farrow enraptured with Moffy. The rest of my friends are scattered, their voices bouncing off the walls and back to me. 

I’m sitting at the island in the kitchen with Akara, Sulli, Luna, and the mischief twins. There’s a special gleam in Tom and Eliot’s eyes tonight, and I can tell, despite their usual antics keeping them busy, they’re happy to be included today. Especially with Luna. All three are glowing, finally a part of the Older Kids Club they’ve spent so many years watching with rapt attention. 

And Luna - she glows in their presence. This world she lives in, I’m just starting to understand the crazy twists and turns it takes. Being familiar with the famous ones never prepared me for the strange divide that existed between the oldest five and everyone else. There’s a rift that’s just starting to close, where Moffy and the rest of the older siblings begin to understand that they can’t protect anyone from growing up.

There’s no reason we’re all together. No special occasion, no birthday or event to celebrate. This is just family, wanting to be together. Wanting to have fun. A part of me feels grateful SFO were even included in it. We’re all off duty. Not one of us is required to be here, but we all came upon invitation. Even Thatcher, who isn’t really a surprise at all considering the oldest Cobalt is present, and Banks are having a good time.

Everyone is waiting for the bomb to drop, for something to go wrong the way it always seems to in terms of the famous ones, (I’m looking at you, Hales), but there’s not a person in the room letting it bother them tonight. Today we’ve somehow been convinced to exist purely in this moment, forgetting yesterday and tomorrow. Personally, until recently, I’ve always tried to live my life that way. 

“Alright, who do you think is going down first?” Sulli asks into a laugh. Her cheeks are flushed, but just from laughing too hard. She’s not drinking tonight. After her passing out incident, she’s been extra careful around alcohol. Akara offered not to drink tonight to keep an eye on her, but she declined. I think all of us were a little relieved, and proud in that instance. 

Every head at our table turns to scan the room. So far, no one really looks trashed. Despite the cups and bottles lining most surfaces of the downstairs, no one looks green or woozy. But I sense the moment all our heads latch onto Jane, struggling to pull off a pair of tall wedges and pouting when her rough treatment flakes glitter onto the ground. 

“Jane,” Luna and I say at the same time, offering each other a laugh before returning our attention back to her cousin. 

Thatcher shifts in his seat beside her on the couch, pulling her feet onto his lap and carefully undoing whatever clasps Jane couldn’t manage. Her neck heats red, and she watching his fingers with rapt attention. 

“So, are they boning yet?” Tom asks blatantly.

Akara chokes so violently on his drink that Thatcher raises his head to glare at all of us, and Luna and I quickly swivel around to face our friends again. Akara is the only one left eyeing Jane and Thatcher, but even he removes his attention after a long moment.

His gaze fixes on Tom. “I’m not touching that.”

Eliot quirks up instantly. “So they are?”

Akara pales, looking to me for back up. He’s not accustomed to Tom and Eliot yet, how they pick up on everything in the room before the rest of us do. I’m fairly certain they’ve only seen Jane and Thatcher together in this laid back of a setting once or twice before, but they voice the sexual tension not one of the rest of us has ever breathed into open air before. 

“Nah,” I say, but I have to smother a shit eating grin by taking a long swig of my beer. “Thatch would be a lot less of a dick if he were getting laid.”

Luna snorts into a laugh, this little sound that comes out only when she’s had a little to drink or completely relaxed. It’s a sound I’d never heard until we started hooking up, but I now I’ve grown accustomed to. Still, I grin every time I hear it. Luna glares in response, but it lacks any heat. 

Sulli looks back and forth among all of us. “Did I miss something?” She asks, biting her lip nervously. “I didn’t think they were - they’re not like? How did I miss that?!”

She turns to Akara, who gives her a sympathetic half smile. When her grin doesn’t return, his smile warps and genuine worry flickers in his eyes. The thing with Akara and Sullivan Meadows - when one of them feels anything less than 100%, the other starts to fret about how to fix it. They have this strange symbiotic relationship, both of them feeding off each others emotions and moods. 

“I don’t think we’re really supposed to know anything, Sul,” Luna offers, reaching out and squeezing her cousins hand. Sulli offers her a small smile of gratitude. “It’s an unspoken thing. I don’t even think they know it’s going on.”

“The denial is strong in this room tonight,” Tom pipes in, and Luna elbows him fiercely in the ribs. His eyes widen, and there’s a silent conversation between he, Eliot, and Luna before Tom pops up from the table. “Sulli, I need to enlist you in a very dangerous mission. Are you up to the task?”

That spark of mischief I’m all too familiar with is caught up in Tom’s eyes, and I think I know exactly what he’s going to do before he does it. I’m already rolling my eyes, pitying whatever poor asshole Tom has decided upon, but Sullivan’s face lights up. Moffy and Jane aren’t really the ‘dangerous mission’ type, and despite how much I know she loves barbeques with Beckett and Charlie, there’s nothing a Meadows doesn’t love more than a daring mission. 

“What are we doing?” She asks excitedly. 

Tom’s grin goes positively wicked. “We’re gonna need a lot of toilet paper. And maybe some baby oil.” He grabs Sulli’s hand, pulling her away from the counter hurriedly, and drifting towards the stairs with careful glances over his shoulder. 

“No way am I missing this,” Eliot laughs, standing up from where he was leaning against the counter. He looks to Luna, still seated on a barstool beside me. “Are you coming, Luna?”

Luna shifts slightly, and my hand unconsciously drifts to her thigh under the counter. I want to take it back instantly, to tell her to go with her cousins if that’s what she wants to do, but her fingers lace through mine in a quick squeeze before returning back to the counter, stirring something in my stomach, and I’m glad when she says, “I’ll run interference down here, in case Moffy or Farrow heads upstairs.”

Wanting Luna and wanting to be near her, they’re feelings I’m still trying to grow accustomed to the frequency of. 

Eliot grins broadly. “Good thinking,” he says, before bolting up the stairs after his brother and cousin.

Across from us, Akara lets out a long breath. His eyes remain on the staircase, gaze fixed after Sulli even after she’s gone, before he turns back towards us. He flicks a glance back to where Jane and Thatcher are likely still on the couch before turning to me and Luna.

“You don’t think they’re really-?”

I only shake my head. “Don’t make me say it, man.”

Akara’s brows furrow. “Say what?”

I pitying laugh escapes me. “Well shit, the denial really is strong tonight. You’re so fucked.”

“Donnelly,” Luna says in warning, but there’s little reprimand in her voice. There’s something else though, a breathiness I’m tempted to test. My hand is still on her thigh, but there’s more risk involved in toying with her now than either of us wants to play with, so I grit my teeth and let the desire pass. “Can I be honest, Akara?”

He nods, easily. There’s little Akara values more than honesty.

“There’s nothing more going on with Jane and Thatcher than there is with you and Sulli.”

Oh shit. That’s a callout. A nice one, definitely, but a callout none the less. I can barely restrain my grin. 

Akara’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, searching for words. I keep quiet, nursing my beer and watching the whole situation unfold. I’d probably be laughing right now if Luna weren’t next to me, ready to elbow me for being unsympathetic. I have less problem with the elbow than I do with that fact that the shove will break contact between us, and I stupidly don’t want to move my hand away from her thigh. 

“There’s nothing going on between me and Sulli.” 

I let out an audible groan and the same time Luna starts laughing and says, “God, you really are hopeless.” 

My attention drifts to Beckett, entering our space and leaning against the counter next to us. He’s more than aware of the feelings between his cousin and her bodyguard, but the conversation cuts off at his arrival. 

“Did I just see my brothers sneaking upstairs to wreak havoc?” He asks us.

“Do you really need to ask?”

Beckett shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He’s the most mellow of all the Cobalt kids, but no one can really be unamused when Eliot and Tom enter the picture. He turns his attention to Akara, “You better go upstairs and warn Sulli. Oscar spilt beer on Moffy, and he’s going to go upstairs and change any minute.”

“Shit,” Akara mutters, and then he’s gone. 

Beckett turns his attention to me and Luna, the only two left at the island now, and something in his gaze makes me take my hand off her thigh and place it in my own lap. I know Beckett better than almost everyone here, minus Charlie, and his expression is calculating. It sets me on edge, and I’m suddenly positive of what’s going on.  _ He knows. _

Luna on the other hands, is completely oblivious. “What’s up, Beck?”

The easy smile on her face dies a little when Beckett leans forward, his expression still serious. She fidgets in her seat, looking uncomfortable. I want to reach out, rest my hand on the small of her back and offer her the comfort of my touch, but I can’t. Whatever we do when we’re alone, I’m realizing we weren’t nearly careful enough.

“I’m just going to say this once, so I want you both to hear me.” My chest tightens at Beckett’s words. He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds.. Almost worried. Constrained. “Whatever is going on between you two, you better be damn sure of it.”

I open my mouth, to defend what we’re doing, to deny it altogether, something to erase this look on Beckett’s face like I betrayed him. 

“Don’t. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Because I think you’re in denial,” Beckett says, and I realize these words are just for me. “And I think you better sort that shit out, because I like you, but I love my cousin more. Okay?”

Beckett says everything like coming to this conclusion was the simplest thing in the world. Sometimes I forget that he watches me as closely as I watch him. That he probably knows me as well as Oscar or Farrow at this point. 

I nod my head, understanding what he’s offered me. His trust in me is so much higher than the trust he had for Farrow early on. I can see that the doubt on his face as he walks away, and I know he’s hoping he hasn’t just given me permission to hurt Luna. He protects his cousins and his siblings from heartache, always looking out for their best interests, and he broke a rule for me today. I didn’t get the third degree because he’s trusting me not to need it. 

Beckett walks away, leaving me and Luna to absorb what he’s just said. Luna’s breath hitches uneasily, and I can’t take the lack of contact. Careful to shield it from sight, I rest my hand on her knee and give it a gentle squeeze. Her worried gazes flickers to me, searching for my reaction. 

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, searching her just as fiercely. I don’t think either of us expected this, being called out in the open. Not with half her family in shouting distance, and certainly not by Beckett. 

It takes her a moment, but Luna nods. “Are you?” She returns the question, and I offer her an encouraging smile. The truth is, I don’t know how I should feel right now, and fuck if I know when that confusion is going to sort itself out, but I know we can’t talk about it here. Luna sighs, “I hate Cobalts. They see everything.”

My hearing catches on the s. “Cobalt _ s _ ? As in  _ plural _ ?” Her eyes widen so far, I’m afraid they might pop out of her head. “Tom and Eliot.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t say anything, I swear.” Luna hurries to tell me, and I rub my thumb across her knee in comfort, trying to tell her I’m not angry at all. “After the party, they just kind of knew. I swore them to secrecy. They won’t tell anyone. The three of us - we always keep each other’s secrets.”

_ You’re back _ . I think back to Tom’s comment, and it suddenly clicks what he meant. If I’m with Luna, I’m invited back into their small circle. Fuck, I’m blind.

“I know, it’s okay.” I let out a sigh, squeezing her knee once more before letting go. She pouts from the lack of contact, but I feel exposed, knowing that this secret isn’t just ours anymore. “We can talk about it more tomorrow, when everyone isn’t around.”

Luna looks at me uncertainly, but she finally nods, understanding that we can’t keep discussing this here. Everyone is crashing in her townhouse and SFO’s tonight, and there’s a good chance she’ll end up in her room with Eliot and Tom, and there will be no time or privacy to say things that need to be said. For now, we have to table this conversation, and I’m duly grateful for it. There’s a lot I have to figure out.

-

**Luna**

I’m going stir crazy. It’s been over a week since Beckett confronted me and Donnelly about whatever there is between us, but despite our intentions, neither Donnelly nor I have brought it up. Fear of the unknown keeps me from bringing up the subject, but I know it needs to be done. Especially since I’ve been sleeping in his bed the last two nights, briefly returning home to retrieve clothes and ensure my brother and Jane that I’m alive before disappearing again. Thus far, they’ve allowed me my vague excuses, but I know they’re suspicious. Quinn too.

The thing is, I don’t really know if I want to change the pace of things. I like where we’re at. I like that the trust I have with Donnelly runs deeper than with any other guys I’ve ever done anything with. Even before we started all of this, he was on my side of things. He wanted my happiness, the best for me on all fronts.

And now that I have a side of the bed in his apartment… I don’t know what that means, but I don’t want to mess it up. I love coming here, laying in his bed and staring at the drawings tacked to his wall while he showers, like I’m doing now. And better than that, I love that there are traces of me in here. Sketches of my profile, a stack of Harry Potter books on the window that Donnelly picked up at a second hand store for when I can’t sleep. 

Donnelly is always giving me little things like that, but mostly he collects those little plastic aliens you win in quarter machines. They line my windowsill so thoroughly at home, I’ve started planting them around his apartment whenever I come over. When he finds one, he takes a photo and asks me to tell the story of how it crash landed on Earth and ended up in his apartment.

Whatever we are, whatever we’re doing, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long while, and I don’t want that feeling to go away. 

“Why does my shower smell like citrus?” Donnelly asks, emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. It’s hard to focus on his words. Water drops in steady droplets down his frame, going in slow trails until they hit the toned v at his hip bones. The weird, writer part of my brain wants to bottle the image and get drunk on it forever.

“It’s vervain,” I tell him clearing my throat and forcing myself to meet his gaze. He wears the biggest shit eating grin, and I know he knows why I am so distracted. “My aunt Rose gave it to me. It’s supposed to smell sort of like lemongrass, but she remembered me telling her vervain protects you from compulsion against vampires. You should use it to.”

A flush creeps up when the last bit slips out, and my throat constricts as he comes closer, leaning over me on the mattress until I’m pressed against the pillows and he’s supporting himself on his arms above me. Our eyes are locked, neither of us breaking the intensity of our flirtatious stare, but I can feel his lips whisper a touch against mine as he speaks.

“Why do I need to smell like fucking lemongrass?”

My whole body shivers, and I watch his eyes spark with dangerous light. 

“Because,” I murmur, fighting to keep my breathing even and not close my eyes. “When you kiss me, I’ll know noone has compelled you to do so.”

I meant it to sound cute, flirty even, but it just sounds silly once it leaves my mouth. When it comes to banter, Donnelly outranks me exponentially. 

Donnelly laughs breathily, and leans forward the last half inch to press the slightest of kisses against my lips. “No one,” he murmurs, kissing me between each word, “needs to compel me to kiss you, Luna Hale. I’m perfectly happy doing it of my own accord.”

His words do more than his touch. My entire body is on fire. My hands reach forward, curving around the muscles of his lower back and pulling his body closer to mine. When our hips touch, he pulls his torso further back and laughs when I pout at the loss of contact. I can’t help it. Everything inside of me is screaming to get closer, to kiss him until my breath leaves my body and I’m immobilized by bliss. 

Donnelly, however, takes his time to examine every inch of my frame, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his face the longer he looks me over. 

“What?” I murmur.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, and fingers the loose bro tank draped across my frame. The sides are cut deeply, and I watch his eyes glaze over the exposed curve of the side of my breast. “It doesn’t fit you very well.” 

The muscles in my stomach tighten at the happiness and possession in his gaze. If I’d known wearing one of his shirt would please him this much, I would have grabbed one off the floor long ago. 

“My aunt Rose says there’s nothing wrong with side boob, so long as it’s tasteful.”

Donnelly laughs, loudly. Suddenly, he leans forward and kisses me with an intensity that has me instantly molten. “I don’t want to talk about what Rose finds tasteful,” he whispers, maneuvering his lips down the column of my throat. The sensation is so pleasant and overwhelming, I let out a squeak that turns quickly into a quiet moan. Donnelly grins against my neck, skimming his teeth over the sensitive skin, and my legs suddenly lock together, aching for pressure. “I’d rather taste you.”

It’s totally over for me. “Okay,” the words comes out so quickly, and my cheeks flame. Mentally, I’m cursing myself for being so like my mother, but by the way his hands grip my thighs and he preps kisses down my body, I don’t think Donnelly even cares.

My body is singing with this moment. Not just with desire, but disbelief. I’m flashing back to all those months ago, when I was dating a boy who didn’t care about who I was or wanted to be, and just wanted me to be the thing on his arm, and Donnelly offered to fill the gap in my body’s cravings if I broke things off. I don’t know how we got from there to here. I never thought we would, but I’m selfishly overjoyed with the outcome.

The way his lips trail my skin, his hands under my shirt and clutching my in place with care, I can’t remember why I ever did this with anyone else. No one else made me feel safe. No one else made me the priority. I lost my virginity to a guy who called me a slut afterwards for no other reason than that he could, and my entire relationship with Andrew was like a modern day Taming of the Shrew (analogy courtesy of one Eliot Alice Cobalt). 

“Get out of your head,” Donnelly murmurs, and his lips skim over the hem of my cotton panties. My legs are trembling, and his mouths moves across them in soothing kisses. His eyes are locked with mine, and this is something no one else has ever done for me. With my past experiences, they aimed towards a high, but the act itself was almost clinical. With Donnelly, everything is intense and intimate.

“I’m out,” I gasp, reaching forward and running my hands through his hair. I love messing up the carefully swept style and watching the heavy, wet strands hang in his eyes, creating a curtained effect that intensifies his gaze. 

When it turns into something more, I don’t overthink. Things with Donnelly, they’re always natural. All my life, I’ve fought to be who I am without shame, and rarely have I wavered, but here, with him, there’s not desire to hide. I think Donnelly sees every part of me, and I think the more  _ me _ I am, the more we pull together.

The two of us, we’re made up of all the things people told us we couldn’t do. We’re a collection of  _ you won’t make it _ and  _ you’re causing yourself more trouble than this is worth _ . We’re every conversation where someone told us to make ourselves less, to fit in better with the society that thought we were too different to succeed. Every moment we spend together, I feel our admiration for each other, for never backing down from who we are. For screaming when the world told us to whisper. 

Together, I can feel every moment I doubted myself slip away. My family, they’ve always encouraged me to be who I am. But Donnelly, he reminds me of everything there is to gain from never backing down.

-

**Paul**

That dark cloud, the feeling of impending doom? I don’t know where it’s gone. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know that it’s still there, that there’s still something around the corner I should see coming but don’t. But right now, I don’t want to think about it. For days I’ve been shoving the feeling away, and drowning myself in the moment. 

It’s been a week since Beckett’s confrontation, and my mind is clear for the first time. My decision - it’s already made. I just don’t know how Luna will react to it. Which is how we got to where we are now.

“I think we should talk about it,” I say, propped against my windowsill while I watch Luna get dressed. 

She grabs a Wawa sweatshirt from my closet, pulling it over her leggings my bro tank, and it dwarfs her frame like she’s stepped into an oversized dress. Want for her fills me so strongly that I nearly leave my post. Not for sex, but just to draw her against me, to kiss her and make her laugh. Which is so much of the fucking problem.

“The elephant in the room?”

Neither of us clarifies. We both know. Luna shifts uneasily, looking at me and then at the ground. Her posture is stiff, unnatural. Not something I ever associate with her. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this uncomfortable and caught up in her own head. 

“I kind of like that way things are,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, Luna plays with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Does that really have to change?”

This is the part where my chest hurts. Where I feel like maybe I should have brought this up days ago, instead of waiting. Nothing about this conversation is easy, and fuck it would be a lie to say I’m not scared shitless of how this could go wrong. The difference with Luna and every other girl I’ve ever slept with - I care about her beyond just wanting to make sure we both have a good time. 

“I need to be really clear with you here,” I start, “I’ve never really done exclusivity -”

Luna cuts me off, turning away and pretending to riffle through my closet again, even though she’s already fully dressed. “We never said we were exclusive in the first place,” she shrugs, not looking back at me. Because I know her, I see past her nonchalant tone and read into the stiffness of her shoulders. Fear won’t let her show it, but she doesn’t want me near anyone else.

I let out an uneasy breath. 

I walk forward, stepping up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist and dipping my fingertips under the hem of her leggings to lightly grip her hip bones and draw her body against mine. When I bend down, letting my breath tickle her neck and my lips ghost the crest of her earlobe, she shivers as I say, “Since you won’t ask, I’m not fucking anyone else, and I don’t have the intention to. You’re enough of a handful all on your own, Lu.”

Her breath hitches at the nickname, something I know she loves. Her entire body is quivering, and I have this nervous feeling that maybe I misread her. Maybe we aren’t agreeing on the same thing. The uncertainty of this moment - it sets me on edge in a way I’m completely unaccustomed to. Normally, I search out things that are shrouded in mystery. I like not knowing what will happen next. But right now, I’m wracked with anxiety over that very lack of information I usually seek out. 

“Lu?”

Luna spins in my arms, looking up at me with this clear and open gaze. “Can I show you something?”

Uncertain, I nod, letting her grab my hand and pull me through the bedroom and out of the apartment. She leads me to a back staircase, one I’ve never even used in all my time living here, and begins to climb. When I realize where she’s taking us, I almost smile.

We break open the door to the rooftop, spinning into the night air with giddy laughter cresting both our lips. Luna props the door open with an old cement brick, and I get the feeling she’s done this before while I was on a run to get us food or running late to meet her. 

She halts in the center of the building, her hair wiping her face in the wind, and stands on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips. It’s this small gesture, something that shouldn’t matter, but it instantly puts my anxieties at ease, even as she pulls away from me. 

“My aunt Daisy always said when she was my age and she wanted to feel alive, she would go to rooftop.” Luna tells me, taking a couple of steps back, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets the wind take her hair and whip it every which way. “But I like the roof when I’m happy. When there’s so much giddy, wild energy inside of me that I have to let it out.”

I don’t bother speaking. I’m not sure I have the right words. This moment, with her, I’m captivated by it. Right now, without words, I know we’re saying the same thing. I know we’re saying that Beckett wasn’t wrong to trust me. We’re saying so much that words don’t feel real anymore. And I understand what she means about that giddy, wild energy inside of her, because my chest is so full I don’t know if I can take in any more air.

“Rattle the stars with me,” Luna whispers, and then she spins away in a circle across the rooftop, screaming as loudly as she can. Only it’s this pure, joyous sound; like she’s scaled mountains and tamed the ocean and discovered the impossible.

It’s like she’s calling my name.

I’m instantly at her side, pulling her flush against me. On rare occasion, I’ve seen Daisy stand on a tabletop and scream at the top of her lungs. And I’ve seen Ryke step up beside her, to share in her anguish and help her set her demons free. With Luna’s history, I think I know why Daisy would share this experience with her.

What I don’t think Daisy would have expected was for her niece to morph this experience into a way to expel her happiness and let it take physical shape. This reaction from Luna, this ability to take something and give it light and life and joy, it’s part of what drew me to her in the first place. The Hales are cursed in a lot of ways, but there’s something they excel at beyond every other family.

They can make you believe in the impossible; in wizards and and aliens and magic. 

The thing about Luna Hale, I’m pretty sure she could belong anywhere she desired. The thing about me, I’m not sure I’ve ever really fit in anywhere at all, except next to her. That’s never felt unnatural or forced, not even from the very start.

And that’s magic if I’ve ever experienced it. 

There’s this mold around us; this tighter plaster coffin of what and who we’re supposed to be to each other. Maybe we put ourselves in it. Maybe it’s not real at all. But I’ve felt its weight around me until now.

I think this is the moment where everything breaks. Where we fissure and crack and reveal the truth under what everyone else believes.

When I kiss her, I feel how things will change. I can feel how this isn’t what it started as. I can feel how something inside us both shifts and morphs and coils tighter. I can feel how there will be no going back. 

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathless. 

“I’ll rattle the stars with you any day, Luna Hale.” She lets out a hiccup of a gasp at my words, eyes frantically flickering across my face for any sign of falsivity. But I meant every word that pours out of me, and maybe she’s finally rubbing off on me, because I’ve never had grand declarations or tact in things. But this… “I’d collapse the sky and make it rain stardust, if you asked me too.”

“If we were a book,” she whispers, closing her eyes and tipping her lips towards mine again. There’s vulnerability on her face, but it’s overshadowed by her smile. “What happens next?”

“If we were a book,” I tell her, “nothing about this moment changes.” 

And then I kiss her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters so far, so I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did! Initially, this story was only going to be about 10 chapters, but I'm leaning closer towards 13 now, because I think Luna and Donnelly have a little more of their story to tell.  
> As always, I really hope everyone is enjoying this fic, and thank you all so much for reading!


	8. Luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> Sorry it's been so long since the last update - I'm on a bit of a hiatus this summer. Here's a little bonus segment, hope you enjoy it.

Music blares, and in this rare moment I feel completely and utterly invincible. In the dim of the concert hall, lights cast only on the stage, excitement so thick in the air I can nearly taste it, loud thumping music flitting through my ears, I am invisible. This is a feeling I’ve always loved, being surrounded by people and yet unrecognizable. So rare is it for someone like me to step into a crowded room without turning heads.

My previous dates have always felt rushed, forced, awkward. Andrew and I were a couple in the strangest sense of the word, always doing things he wanted but never things I did. And until tonight, Donnelly and I have always been too afraid of wandering eyes to go anywhere vaguely datelike. 

Tonight is different.

Tonight  _ we are alive _ .

My ideal date has always been this image: the glow of blue lights reflecting off fog from machines blasting off stage, music so loud lips have to be pressed to my ear to speak to me, the anonymity of a thousand bodies dancing in the dark. Concerts are a life altering experience, especially when you know the people gracing the stage. 

Donnelly and I’s existing at the Carraways latest venue is meant to be a show of support. It’s the biggest show they’ve played yet (so fucking proud of you, Tom), and along the edges of the crowd somewhere, all the Cobalt bodyguards are watching Tom and his band rock the stage. 

With a little help from Tom and Beckett, Donnelly is miraculously off duty, no speaker in his ear pulling his attention from me. Though, my cousin pulls it often enough. 

Tom and Donnelly have this special relationship that differs from the friendship that Beckett and Donnelly have. When Donnelly was Tom’s bodyguard, we were all still kids in everyone’s eyes, but Donnelly never treated us like we were less. And Tom - he treats Tom like a little brother. Even here, with our bodies pressed tightly together, Donnelly’s eyes wander to the stage, brimming with pride. I wouldn’t be surprised if another Carraways poster graced his apartment sometime soon. 

I’m not bothered by the drift in his attention. My whole life, when I dreamed of future relationships, I caught myself on the idea that there would always be a chance I’d end up with someone who could never understand the intensity with which I love my family. With Donnelly, I never have to worry about that. He loves my family just as much as I do, albeit in a different way.

My grin is spread so, so wide when I twist in his arms, keeping his hands on my waist but turning until I can see his face. Donnelly is disheveled, his Carraways tshirt ripped in several places, his hair falling down in his eyes from dancing, sweat glistening against his brow. He fits in with this crowd - all tattoos and dark clothes with smiles that could power the world with their brightness.

Donnelly’s attention finally glides from the stage, his head ducking down so he can see me watching him. His grin turns private as our eyes lock, and his hands inadvertently tighten their grip on the swell of my hips. It's one of my favorite things about him - that his instinct is to always keep me closer, hold me tighter. 

He ducks his head down, lips pressed against the curve of my ear. “What are you staring at?”

“You.”

I can feel his grin spread against my skin, his happiness bleeding into every breath he exhales into the air. I want to pause this moment and capture it, to make a physical object I can hold in my hand and relive again and again. There’s magic to be had in a moment like this - being so close without worrying who sees. The crowds are too dense, the lights too dim. In this moment, we’re strangers caught in a sea of anonymity, slammed together by the tide and trapped together in the sands. 

“You see me every day, Lu,” He laughs, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. Instead, he pulls me closer, letting me stand on top of his feet so every inch of our bodies are pressed together. When his lips trail light kisses across my neck, my body melts against his, so content in this moment to simply be. 

My words are breathless, my hands caught so tightly in the fabric of his tshirt. “Not like this,” I tell him. “Not like the world is in your palm, not so happy.”

“I’ll admit,” he murmurs into my ear, barely audible over Tom’s voice through the speakers, “that this is highlight for me. I’m proud of him. And being here with you is so much better than being stuck on the sidelines, watching a crowd I wanted so badly to be a part of.”

As a writer, I’ve always known that words can leave you breathless. I’ve read passages that left me aching and yearning for something I couldn’t name, written things that drifted tears down my cheeks. And yet, these words from Donnelly’s mouth are somehow better than all of those private moments alone with a novel or a notebook. 

I never thought I would value spoken word over the written, but here I am.

Wherever Donnelly is concerned, every experience is startling in its intensity. Everything is a new adventure, a new chapter I never thought I’d write. 


	9. Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Once again, sorry this took so long to post - I'm actually the worst at regular updates.   
> We're getting so close to the end now, with just one chapter left, plus the epilogue. I hope everyone's been enjoying the story, and I hope this (extra soft, by popular demand) helps make up for the wait :-)

With Beckett safely on our side, it’s easy to slip away from the Carraways concert with Luna. Suspicions amongst her siblings are running high about where she stays when she slips Quinn’s detail and disappears for a night, Moffy even asking if she’s back together with Andrew. Hearing the kid’s name makes me grit my teeth, but I’ve managed to keep my mouth shut this long, so it won’t do me any good to blow our cover now.

Luna is much better at hiding things than I am, and does it with far better humor. Whenever anyone asks, she dawns that sly smile she offered the first time we’d ever kissed, and said who she’s seeing isn’t any of their business until she makes it so. The unofficial claiming causes an unsteady rhythm in my chest. Whatever we are now, it’s far from what it started as. And I’m not sure I’d ever fucking backtrack. 

Weeks and months have come and gone, and somehow I’ve lost track of how many nights Luna has spent in my bed. How many times I’ve woken up with my fingers tangled in her hair. Coming home with her now, it feels more like an inevitability than a choice. This apartment never truly felt like home until she was in it. 

Both of us are slowly losing the wired, wild energy we had from our first public outing, even though we were surrounded by strangers who couldn’t recognize us in the dark. When I lock the door behind me, encasing us in our own private world once again, the silence feels heavy with want. For each other. And for more, in every sense of the word. 

“Shower?” Luna murmurs, and I follow without needing to answer as she tugs on my hand, leading us through my bedroom and into the bathroom.

Her fingers are slow and steady as she hovers them over my chest, tracing slow and fiery lines across the fabric of my shirt until she reached the hem. My pulse pounds, my hands obeying their own laws and they help Luna remove my shirt. Every action is slow, measured, meant to allow us all the time we desire to look one another over, absorb every hard line and soft curve of each other’s bodies. After all this time, we both never seem to be able to look our fill. 

When the clothes are gone, I pull Luna forward, dipping my head to capture her lips with mine. A steady ache is building in my body, the kind that never existed before I met her. There is want and there is need, and I’ve come to understand that I need Luna like plants need sunlight. More than a craving. More than I could ever begin to describe. 

“Lu,” her name breaches my lips, and I feel her smile against me. 

“If we were a book,” she murmurs, and I already know how this game ends, “what happens next?”

My grin is wide wide it fucking hurts. Behind us, the soft patter of water striking the tile floor of my shower almost dulls the sound of our mingled breath. It sounds like rain on a rooftop, lulling us both into a quiet of illusion of no world outside this room and us. 

That phrase, that stupid phrase that only I have ever heard, it sets my very bones on fire. Anyone who knows me, knows my life hasn’t been easy. That I learned damn early in life not to want things for myself, never to call something my own unless I wanted it taken from me. Family became whatever the fuck I could make it, Oscar and Farrow when their bloodline let me within arms reach. 

With Luna everything is different. She’s too wild to ever belong to someone, too pure a spirit to ever be confused with a possession. But I wanted her to be belong to me, or  _ with  _ me. Not caring was my specialty until she changed the game. 

“We get into the shower,” I whisper back, letting my eyes wander her face before dipping my mouth to the column of her throat, kissing a line of desire along her racing pulse, “and you try not to wake our neighbors.”

The  _ our _ leaves my mouth before I can stop it, and her pulse jumps against my skin. For a moment, I’m afraid the illusion is broken, that my inability to keep my damn mouth shut has finally and truly fucked me over good, but Luna’s hands are still strong against my skin. They travel up my chest, her arms winding behind my neck. When she jumps, twining her legs around my waist, I catch her.

Stepping under the water, our wandering hands are slick and smooth, sliding easily and rediscovering everything we’ve long since added to memory. The typography of our bodies is perfectly aligned. We’re two edges of something thought to be broken, but truly just missing a piece.

Luna pulls away from our kiss, a softness in her eyes when she meets my questioning gaze that I’m almost unfamiliar with. “I want you.” Her voice is low, wavering, and I know there’s more to her words than just what she’s said, but I can’t wrap my brain around them in the heat of this moment. 

“You have me,” I tell her. “From the beginning.”

Her eyes still shine with something like disbelief, and her fingers are so soft as she traces them along my lips, the curver of my nose, the hard edge of my jaw. “Did anyone ever tell you growing up, how you’re supposed to see fireworks when you kiss someone?” I nod, holding us steady under the constant, soft stream of water while she continues her exploration. “Do you feel fireworks when you touch me?”

I know exactly what she’s talking about. When you’re growing up, adults are always talking about knowing you’re meant to be with someone when you feel a spark. When you kiss and fireworks burst behind your eyelids. The interpretation is skewed, tragically, but it wasn’t nearly as big a load of bullshit as I expected.

It’s not complete bs because fire lines my skin over every line Luna traces. Sparks seem a dramatic idealism, but her skin ignites a reaction from mine that no one else can give me. You could call if chemistry or lust, I have no idea, but it’s hard to imagine any feeling better than this.

“Yes.”

My lips trail her collarbones, unable to hold still any longer. Luna lets out a content sigh, her head lulling back against the shower wall as her fingers slide into my hair. When I press my teeth gently into the curve of her collarbone, she lets out a low moan that sets me throbbing. Being this close, I can’t help myself from touching her. Want is a fire that burns so thickly through me I’m ready to let myself be fucking consumed. 

Our pace is slow, careful. There’s a line we’ve almost breeched, a step I can’t quite tell if we’ve taken, and I can barely manage to care. Not when soft, hot gasps breach Luna’s lips like a half uttered prayer and the only word I can manage to speak is her name. Water is everywhere, but so are we, our hands making a seductive dance across each other’s skin while our bodies crest and grind, my fingers in her hair and her nails in my back. 

Our skin slides together, water trailing down the back of my neck and around my shoulders only to be crushed between our clashing stomachs. My lips stay pressed to Luna’s, only occasionally moving along the plane of her neck or the slope of her breasts. Our breathing is heavy but quiet, the air hot and stuffy as we add more heat to the already near scalding water  that coats every inch of us.

Release is a long affair, both of us panting into each other’s mouths between heavy kisses. The washing that comes after is quiet, not with tension but the comfort of familiarity. I’ve grown fucking soft, letting Luna scrub me with her vampire repelling soap and making shapes with the lather of her shampoo while I wash her hair. I never thought I’d be one of those whipped guys, enjoying the mundane, common life just as much as the ecstasy of sex. 

I carry Luna to bed when she waivers on her feet, shuffling her safely into the sheets and pulling one of my old sweatshirts over her head so she doesn’t get cold in the middle of the night. Her eyes sliver open for a moment, and she wipes her fingers across the pillow below her head as she sinks further into the blankets.

“Why is there glitter on my pillow?” She whispers, sleepily. A grin stretches my face near painfully when she says  _ my  _ pillow. I like that she’s claimed this place in my bed, like it’s where she belongs. She doesn’t catch my smile, too sleepy to open her eyes again.

“It’s stardust,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. She makes a happy sound of contentment. “So even when you’re asleep, your head will be in the clouds.”

Her smiles crests her face softly, barely a twinge to her face as sleep fights to pull her under. “I love you,” Luna says, and I think my heart stops. She’s so close to the edge of sleep, I’m not sure if she actually meant to say the words out loud until she keeps talking. “You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.”

She’s asleep before my heart has calmed, before I can think of Beckett’s warning and understand why he didn’t want to trust me. Caring about someone is one thing. Admitting to loving them is something I haven’t done in a very long time. 

-

Neither Oscar nor Farrow is surprised when I hit them up to come over for drinks after Luna has drifted off to sleep. I think maybe all of us have been waiting for this - for me to stop evading them and finally explain why I’ve been so off for weeks on end. Both of them, my friend friends, my brothers really, know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t talk until I was ready.

And now I definitely need their help.

The door to my bedroom is shut tight, Luna undoubtedly asleep for the night. That particular reveal… It’s something I’m not sure how to address.  _ Hey Farrow, your boyfriend’s little sister is a sleep in my bed, could you do me a favor and not mention it?  _ It doesn’t sound like the greatest of ideas.

Oscar takes the couch, sprawling across the entire surface with his feet dangling over the edge. Farrow is perched in my windowsill, looking at a stack of drawings on my desk. The air is tight with words unsaid, the obvious and the evasive. 

Fuck, it’s been a long time since we’ve done anything just the three of us. The realization rocks me a little. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine going through a day without one of them next to me. Where I need Oscar’s guiding laugh in my ear and Farrow’s steadying hand on my shoulder just to get me to take another step. My family is in this room. My  _ real  _ family, with one exception.

“So what is this about?” Oscar finally asks, breaking the silence as he takes a quick swig of his beer. He takes a careful sweep of my features, looking for the cause of the tension riddling my skin. Of the three of us, Oscar is the most attuned to body language. Sneeze with too much force, and Oscar knows you’re hiding something. “Is your dad up for parole again or something?”

Farrow lifts his head at that. It’s been awhile since I asked Farrow to answer one of my dad’s phone calls. I remember trying to explain that dynamic to Luna, when we were laying in bed together and she saw me dodging calls. For her, it’s different. The mistakes they made and continue to make, they’re easily forgivable acts. The people who raised me, they aren’t really my family. But I can’t completely give up on them, can’t completely let go. So Farrow answers to help me keep my wall in place, but with a window in case I decide I need to see what’s on the other side.

“No,” I answer. This is a lot fucking harder than I thought it would be. “No, he’s still got plenty of time left before then.”

“So then what is it about?”

I don’t answer. I’m no sure how. This is a road I’ve never walked with them before; aside from Beckett’s addiction, I have no secrets. Our lives are open to each other. Farrow and Moffy, a secret but not a secret. I always knew. Oscar always knew. There was something there, the only surprise was how much it meant.

“It’s about Luna.”

My head snaps up so quickly, I’m afraid I might have given myself whiplash. Farrow is staring at me, waiting to see the truth of his statement on my face. Oscar flicks his gaze between us, then rises very slowly into a sitting position. It takes all my effort not to flick my eyes up to my bedroom door, to let them know she’s here and she’s mine and I’m not prepared to give that up. 

“Yeah,” my voice come out hoarse, choked with emotion I haven’t even dragged to the surface yet, “it’s about Luna.”

Oscar nods slowly. “I figured you guys were hooking up.” Such an easy statement, like it’s not big deal. Like what I’m doing isn’t jeopardizing all our jobs, and putting me in the crosshairs of Loren Hale’s wrath. “Since she was with Andrew. There was something there, tension, you know? It was only a matter of time. Did things end awkwardly or something? Or did you fuck up?”

I flinch at his last statement, but I can’t begrudge Oscar for it. Once upon a time, one and done was my motto. I never called twice, never remembered a name or a phone number. For as long as he’s known me, I’ve made it my mission not to give a damn about anyone. Life was so much fucking simpler when I only had to worry about myself.

Where do I even start? How do I explain that I’ve been lying for months, changing into a completely new person? 

No. That’s not right either. Luna always said I never changed, that I’ve always been like this below the surface. She’d say I just became more me, like a volcano coming up out of the ocean. It’s always been there, now there’s just more out in the open.

Being with Luna… It helped me rediscover the parts of myself I shut down years ago. Repairing years worth of damage, I didn’t think there was anything that could do that. My family did a number on me, and somehow Luna has filled that hole. Or maybe it was already filled, and I just refused to see it.

The words tumble out of my mouth.

“I think I’m in love with her.”

Oscar spits beer across my coffee table, and Farrow stands up so straight his spine must be screaming. So I start from the beginning. Where and how it started, and when it changed into something undeniable. And as I’m explaining it all, I think maybe Luna and I have always been inevitable. That maybe her crazy family might be right, and that there is such a thing as soulmates. Because I’ve lived a pretty damn long time, and I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. 

When the story ends, right up to the hour before I called them over, we’re all silent, absorbing the change in our world. Without needing to be asked, Oscar and Farrow have expanded our circle by one. As easily as we did for Moffy. It is our unspoken pact. There’s always more room for the people who deserve it. For the people we can’t bear to part with.

“So what the fuck are you going to do?” Oscar asks.

I shrug. “Fuck if I know. This is unfamiliar territory.”

“Who knows?” Farrow… Oh, this part is going to sting. 

“Beckett, Eliot, and Tom.”

Unsurprisingly, Oscar is the one to spring at being offended. “You told the demon twins before you told us?”

I level him with a you-should-know-better stare. “They’re Cobalts. I didn’t tell them shit. They used their superior intellect to figure it out before I did.”

“I’d buy that,” Farrow and Oscar say simultaneously, and share a conspiratorial grin. 

For a moment, when we all laugh, the air isn’t quite so heavy. It almost makes me wish I’d told them from the very beginning, but that it’s quite true. The private moments I’ve had with Luna, I like that they’re just ours. Luna and I, we share so much of ourselves with her family and SFO. Every important moment and milestone, every emotion and desire. For a short while, we had something that was just ours. I wouldn’t ever take that back.

I’ve lived my whole life without regrets. This is no different. Except Luna, she means more than everything else I’ve done. 

Farrow is the one to say it. “I know what you have to do, but you’re going to hate it.”

Oscar laughs, and we all know. It’s the obvious thing, the one I wanted to avoid for a little while longer, if only so I could keep my life. 

“I am so fucking dead.”

-

Dawn is crawling in through the windows when I finally creep back into my bedroom. Oscar and Farrow have long since gone home to let Moffy in on the night’s events. That’s a fight I’m not looking forward to having, because it’s clear to everyone just how much Moffy wants me within even thirty feet of his sister, but I try not to think of that as I slide into bed. Farrow will lull Moffy as much as possible, and I have bigger things to worry about.

Tucked under the covers, Luna looks impossibly small. My pillow is tucked tight against her chest, her compensation for the lack of me in bed. She usually wakes long before I do, so it’s rare for me to be able to watch her sleep like this. Peaceful and unworried, childlike but not childish. I almost don’t want to wake her, but I also don’t want to wait.

“Lu,” I whisper, nuzzling my nose against the crook of her neck, knowing that’s her favorite way to be woken up. “Lunar, babe. Wake up.”

Luna scurries in closer to me, huddling her body against mine to fight away the cold. “It’s too early,” she whispers, her lips brushing my hair as she speaks. “Sleep now. Kiss later.”

Ignoring her comment, I trail my lips across the exposed ridge of her collarbone until I feel goosebumps rise on her skin. “I have to tell you something important.”

Her groan of exhaustion is one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. “Unless there is an alien invasion happening outside our window right now, whatever you have to say can wait two hours.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Luna’s eyes snap open, all exhaustion forgotten. Her eyes flicker across my face frantically, looking for lies or uncertainty. Whatever she finds, it makes water build in her eyes. Her fingers fist into the front of my hoodie, crushing the fabric so tightly I can feel it tugging against me. “You love me?”

“Yes.” I lean in to kiss the tear that spills from her left eye. Her entire body shakes against mine, but she makes no effort to pull away. Whatever fear or anxiety she’s feeling, I let her feel it. Our noses are pressed together, our eyes locked while she fights back more tears. 

“How much do you love me?” She whispers, and I know exactly what she’s asking.

“If we were a book,” I murmur, slipping under the covers and fitting my body between her legs, letting hands rest on either side of Luna’s head while our eyes stay locked. I’m pretty sure she’s holding her breath. “I’d tell you that I want to kiss you in front of your entire family and damn the consequences.” I tip my head forward, pressing my forehead against hers, so each breath Luna takes caresses my mouth. “If we were a book, I’d tell you I’m tired of hiding out at my apartment, waiting for you to show up when you should be here anyways.”

Luna’s eyes are glistening with tears, but she closes them tightly. 

“Lu, look at me.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t,” she murmurs, grasping tightly at my hoodie once again, waiting while I pepper her eyelids with soft kisses, gently persuading her to meet my gaze.

“Lu,” I say more sternly, gripping her chin between two fingers. Not enough to hurt, but tight enough to encourage you to open her eyes. I wonder if she can read my expression, that has never been so open before, so sure of anything. “If we were a book,” I whisper, and my voice cracks, cluing her in that there is more emotion here than I’ve been trying to let on, “I’d tell you that I am hopelessly in love with you, and then you’d kiss me, so we could rattle the stars together.”


	10. Luna

Lying in bed with Paul, there is a large part of me that doesn’t want to go through with this. Secrets in my family are rare; so few things we fear telling the rest, or wish to keep to ourselves. Above all else, my family values transparency, and asking for help. My parents taught each and every one of us that, even my aunts and uncles. Their story could have ended so differently, without Rose and Connor, and Ryke and Daisy, there to hold them up. 

Secrets were whispered pranks under Tom’s bed, or the mean things someone at school would say that I didn’t want my parents to blame themselves for. Secrets have always been so small, an infinitesimal piece of a much grander story. And because of that, secrets have always come to hurt.

I’d been so wounded, finding out about Moffy and Farrow, though I’d always tried to hide that that truth from my big brother. In many ways, Moffy is one of the strongest members of our big family, but his weakness has been and always will be  _ us _ . We rely so heavily on him, I often wonder how he manages to bear all of our weight. 

I’ve never really been like my brother. Though I rarely need to make the choice, unlike Moffy, my desire to be true to myself has always outweighed my sense of familial duty. Like anyone in my raucous, complicated extended family, there is almost nothing I wouldn’t do if asked. Except endanger my own happiness, based on someone else’s perception of what I want or need.

Months passed post Marrow reveal before my father could look at Farrow with anything but mistrust. Only an idiot couldn’t see what that did to Moffy; his desire to be perfect in our parents’ eyes fractured by the outrage that came from him declaring himself in love. 

I have never been like my brother, except in this: I desperately seek our parents’ approval.

What keeps me trapped in bed, wary over the right decision, is that I don’t want Paul to be a secret, but I don’t want my love for him to turn my relationship with my parents into something ugly. My mom is hardly a worry, because even if she’s apprehensive, Lily Hale has always been a strong advocate for all things related to love, and her children making their own decisions. 

It’s my dad and, by proxy, Uncle Ryke and Uncle Connor, that worries me.

Loren Hale has sharp edges, the kind people find they’ve cut themselves on without meaning to touch. Our whole family knows the truth: that he’s selfless beyond need, devoted unequivocally to his wife and children, and forever trying to better the world. His sharper parts have never hurt me or my siblings, but they’ve unwittingly restrained us. 

From what I know of my grandfather, he created all the lethal bits of my father that my mom and aunts and uncles have worked so hard to smooth out. I know why my father twirls his wedding ring, and I know that my grandfather’s lack of affection and outright emotional abuse were some of the biggest contributing factors to the darkest places in Loren Hale’s past. 

And I also know that my dad vowed never to be like his own father with me, Moffy, Xander, and Kinney. I know my life has been a dream of my dad’s creation (with obvious help from a little Lily Hale magic), and that I would never change the father I have, or wish for another. 

And because of that, I’m terrified of what today means. Of sharing this secret with him. The age difference between myself and Donnelly isn’t just something my father will balk at, but something he’ll want to eliminate all together, and I can’t say the public won’t as well.

I’m thinking of my uncle Ryke and aunt Daisy, and how their age difference made the world doubt them. How it made even my dad, Ryke’s biggest supporter, skeptical that they could have really been in love. And I wish I could say that their success story changed people’s opinions, namely my dad’s, because I want him to want this for me. 

But Loren Hale looks at a love like Ryke and Daisy’s and says it’s the rarest kind that exists in the world, and I’m unlikely to find it, and certainly won’t be finding it with a man like Paul Donnelly. I want my family to see what I see.

A man who was given every reason in the world to bow down and give up, but stayed standing. A man who refused to be anything other than purely himself. A man who has encouraged me to do exactly the same. A man whose apartment is littered with doodles of my face on restaurant napkins and sketchbook pads and old receipts. A man who sprinkles stardust on my pillow before I go to sleep.

A man who loves every single piece of me irrevocably, and has never asked me to change. 

Because if my dad voices his disapproval, if he tells me that the love I’ve found is unlikely to be real, I think he’ll be forgetting one very big thing.  

My name is Luna Hale. I was not born on this planet. And my parents raised me to be one in a million. Hell if I don’t want to be as close to one of a kind as I can get. And I’d find the rarest kind of love that exists out of spite, simply because someone told me I couldn’t. 

“Paul?” I whisper, rolling over and reaching out for him. Our legs are already entangled, but I want to run my fingers through his hair, an action that brings comfort to us both.

I expect him to have his eyes closed, but he’s already watching me, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He must not have taken them off after he finished flipping through SFO emails on his phone this morning while we laid here, clinging to time, as if that could defeat the inevitable. He doesn’t say anything, not even a smart comment about my using his first name. That’s how I know he’s just as terrified as I am, that we both want to make this bed an island and never leave it again. 

But we’re so much more than a secret to be kept in a drafty apartment in Philly. I want a dresser of my clothes here, not a backpack hastily stuffed with clothes swiped from a home I no longer live in. I want to hold his hand without worrying who’s watching. I want to wake up and find him looking at me, every day, claiming the pillow against the wall as my own. I want to lay beside him late at night, my head on his stomach and his fingers on my hair, while he reads out of loud from the tattered Harry Potter books he keeps on his windowsill for me. 

I want this life. And I want everyone to know that Luna Hale writes her own story. And she’s chosen her happily ever after.

“Paul,” I say again, voice barely a whisper as my fingers trace every plane of his face. “Are you ready to rattle the stars with me?”

\------------------------------

Arriving at my parents’ house is like writing the beginning of a story, only instead of being in control, someone else is writing the ending for me. I can set the tone, but Donnelly is the one who will have to make sure we have an epilogue. 

Oscar and Farrow hang back, there for the support I know Donnelly needs, but giving us a moment on the steps outside my parents’ front door to steel ourselves for the enormity of what we’re about to do. I know that my dad saw us pull up. That inside in the hall, he and Ryke and Connor are waiting, just the way we asked them to be. 

“Promise me something,” I say, turning to Donnelly. 

“Anything.” His anxiety is shoved down as concern for me crinkles the space between his eyes. I reach up to smooth it away.

With a deep breath, I grab his hand. “We go in together. And we leave together. No matter what.” My voice is shaking, fear and hope exploding inside my gut like a million tiny moths shuttered inside trying to escape. “Promise me.”

He squeezes my hand, leaning down to press his forehead to mine. “I promise.” 

And so we go in, hand and hand, Oscar and Farrow in tow, to face the music.

My dad is front and center, pacing the hall with Ryke and Connor watching warily. When we crest the doorway, he stops abruptly, the anxiety on his face quickly morphing to anger as his sees our entwined hands. Connor, who’d been leaning casually against a wall, regal and relaxed, stands up straight, his expression impassive, but his body twisting just an inch closer to my dad’s. Ryke lets out a colorful curse. 

“You have about two seconds to get the fuck away from my daughter and explain to me what the hell you were thinking, before I find a very creative way to rearrange your face,” my father snarls, and it’s the most vicious I’ve ever heard him sound. This is the man that existed before I was born, the man my mom loved despite all their broken pieces, the man my family healed.

When he takes an angry step towards us, his eyes glued on Paul with a lividity that frightens me, I don’t think. I just act. 

I step in front of Donnelly, creating a barrier with my body between the man that raised me and the man that brought me to life.

My father falters in his step, grinding to a sudden halt, and when he sees the fear in my eyes, his expression shatters from rage to despair. And I see my father break. Ryke steps forward, offering a steadying hand on his shoulder, while my father takes in a ragged breath and twists his wedding ring anxiously. 

“If you love me at all,” I tell him, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You’ll listen.”

His mouth twists, words trying to form into arguments for several long seconds before he gives in and nods. 

Connor steps forward when it’s clear no one else knows how to make the next move, his cool gaze keeping my father’s anguish from drowning him, and my uncle Ryke’s clear displeasure from bubbling over into anger. 

“Luna,” Connor says, no emotion. “Why don’t you go upstairs with your mom?”

My first instinct is to say no, to tether myself as tightly to Donnelly as I can, but Donnelly’s arm winds around my shoulders, turning me towards him before I can protest. His eyes are sad but determined, and I realize his sadness isn’t just for me. It’s for how this has affected my dad, how what we’ve done has inadvertently pushed him close to breaking down. And I love him so much more for that.

“I’ll be okay. Go get Lily Hale on our side. We both know she’s our best secret weapon.” His smile is forced, and I have to shutter my breathing to keep from letting out a sob.

My words come out hitched with my tears. “Remember that you promised.”

“I remember,” he whispers back, cupping my face in his hands and pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. “And I won’t break it. Okay?”

It rips a hole in my chest to step away from him, but I know this isn’t something I can change. We talked about how this would go down, how I couldn’t be here to force my dad’s hand when Donnelly is the one that needs to win him over. Still, I cast a glance at Oscar and Farrow over his shoulders, a silent conversation between the three of us that they are there to watch over him when I can’t.

When I turn towards my father, I take a steadying breath before I walk up to him. For the first time in my life, he doesn’t reach for me when I step near. I’m within arms reach, but he doesn’t wrap me in his arms in greeting. He just stands, frozen, torn between anger and grief. 

“I want you to remember, all of you,” I say, flicking my eyes to Ryke and Connor as well, “what it felt like when people didn’t believe in you. What it felt like when loving my mom, and Rose, and Daisy, was something people told you was unhealthy, or unreal, or abnormal.” I look at each of them in turn, and because I know them, I know they all hear me. “And I want you to remember that my whole life, you’ve told me to be myself  _ no matter what _ .”

And now I say the words just to my dad, because he is the one that truly needs to hear them. “And I want you to remember that you raised me to be independent, and strong. And I want you to remember what it did to Moffy when you doubted him.” My father flinches, and I reach out to grab his hand. I squeeze it, trying to convey all the things I don’t have words for. “Please don’t make that same mistake with me. I love you more than so many things in this world, and I want you to want this for me, to share this with me. 

“But I don’t love you more than I love my happiness, and I won’t ever forgive you if you try to take it from me.”

The sadness on my father’s face is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.

“Luna-” I cut him off, squeezing his hand before pulling away.

“Just listen, okay?”

When he nods, I turn to leave, throwing one last glance over my shoulder at the six men below, a mirror of three and three, as I ascend the stairs.

\------------------

I find my mom in her room, sitting criss cross in the middle of the bed, her hands worrying at the bedspread. When she sees me, a river of tension flows out of her, cascading to the floor. When she reaches for me, I crumble into her gratefully, curling into her lap even though I am much too old to do so.

“How bad is it down there?” She whispers against my hair, hands rubbing soft, comforting circles into my back. 

I pull back, wiping at my eyes. “It’s pretty bad.”

She smiles sadly, and I see in us the same worry. The men we love our having one of the hardest conversations of their lives, and we’ve been delegated to the sidelines. Both of us want to be down there, tethered to the people who hold our hearts in their hands. Hales have never been good at letting each other fight battles alone. 

“So, Donnelly, then?”

My gaze lifts to hers, a question in my eyes. And Lily Hale laughs, her smile so soft and easy. “I’m not blind. You’re Raisy two point o.”

The comparison warms me in unexpected ways. Ryke and Daisy have always been my favorite love story, next to my mom and dad’s. 

“How long have you known?”

She shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear that immediately falls back into her face again. “Awhile. I have a sixth sense for these things, you know?”

I smile back at her, because I do, and always have. She predicted all the biggest love stories I know. Connor and Rose. Ryke and Daisy. Willow and Garrison. My mom knew they were all in love before they did, and she never doubted their happiness. Hearing her say she predicted me and Donnelly puts my anxiety at ease. Donnelly may believe in the Hale curse, but I believe in Hale magic, and Lily Hale has never predicted a relationship that ended. 

And so I tell her all of it, skirting around the parts that are likely to make her blush and squirm in her seat. From the very first feelings on the tour bus, our little Wawa excursions, the Carraways concert, to rattling the stars and the stardust on my pillow. 

And when I finish, her smile is so proud and full, taking over the whole of her face with it’s warmth. 

“You really love him, don’t you?”

I’m nodding, but it doesn’t feel like enough. So I try to think of a way to explain to her the depth of how irreversibly my world has changed. 

“Do you know how,” I start, suddenly shy and playing with my fingers to avoid my mom’s gaze, “you and dad always said you were lucky you lived in this universe? This Earth? Because you didn’t know if you’d be together in a different one?”

My mom nods. I’m familiar with the ins and outs of Lily Calloway and Loren Hale’s love story. The world is invested up to their eyes. Even my aunts and uncles are always telling me that my parents made them believe true love existed. Because they defied every odd stacked against them, and came out stronger together.

I gather the strength to look at her. Her eyes are unburdened, they hold no judgement. I think she already knows the severity of my feelings, her sixth sense tingling. It’s just one of her many superpowers. “I never worry about alternate universes,” I tell her, and her eyes start clouding with happy tears before I even finish. “We’re together in every one.”

 

**Paul**

Watching Luna ascend the stairs, I don’t realize until after she’s out of sight that I’ve been holding my breath. There is a veritable weight of the sky being placed on my shoulders, and I’m not Atlas. 

My whole life I’ve run from anything with the power to break the tenuous, steady barrier I placed around my heart. I’ve been the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the asshole that doesn’t call the next morning, the cocky guy at the gym who’s quick to hop into the ring for a fight but won’t open his mouth in the locker room. For years now, there hasn’t been anything in my life I deemed worth fighting for, and now that I’ve found something, I’m terrified I won’t have the strength to keep it.

I asked Luna to trust me with this conversation. To let me be the one convince Lo that I’m no Andrew. That I belong with his daughter the way boats belong on water. Luna would be fine without me, but I would be entirely without purpose without her. 

Belonging to a person - it’s an entirely new concept to me. I never believed in it until I was holding a laughing girl in my arms and she was asking me to rattle the stars with her. And I honestly don’t know what it was about that moment, whether it was her unwavering whimsy and hopefulness, or the fact that she’d chosen me, or even that she was crazy enough to pull a declaration of love and commitment from a quote from  _ Treasure Planet.  _

But I knew it then, and I think Luna did too. That the day on the roof we were promising each other more than fidelity. We were saying  _ I love you _ without having to say the words.

So I wanted it to be me that talked to Lo, and, by extension, Ryke and Connor. Because somehow I have to make them understand that meeting their family changed my life, but being with Luna changed  _ me _ . 

“You two can go,” Connor says, and I realize he means Oscar and Farrow.

Behind me, without looking, I feel them both stiffen. Oscar especially. His loyalty is to Charlie, and as Charlie’s dad, Connor’s word is law. And yet, he doesn’t move a muscle. Oscar’s gaze bores into my back, waiting for my queue on what the fuck we’re doing here.

“I’d like them to stay,” I manage to get the words out, though they sound strained. None of the famous ones look too pleased with my request. It’s an endeavor to explain. “They aren’t here to interfere. We - Luna and I - asked them not to say anything to try to sway anyone either way. They’re just here for support.”

“Support?!” Ryke barks, like I have a lot of nerve asking for that much. Maybe I do.

I narrow my gaze on Lo, hoping something in my eyes will help him understand my sincerity. “I wasn’t always the best person. Being better? I owe a lot of that to Oscar and Farrow. They keep me in check when outside circumstances make me want to go back to something I’m not.” With intent, I cast a glance to Lo’s either side, indicating his brothers in turn. “I think you understand that.”

There’s silence for a few long, tense moments. Connor’s expression doesn’t change, his body still loose and casual, but I think I see a hint of something in his eyes. Like he’s impressed I noticed, or impressed I was fucking ballsy enough to make any connection between myself and Loren Hale. Ryke lets out a ragged sigh, muttering defeated obscenities under his breath. 

Loren Hale’s gaze is bruising. He considers me for one of the longest moments of my life, his eyes lingering on the way my thumbs rub nervous lines up and down my pointer fingers. Not so unlike twisting his wedding ring. We both have our tells. 

“What I don’t understand, is what the hell you think you’re doing with my daughter.” Lo’s eyes flash, that amber gaze is fluid with so many emotions I can’t even keep track. When he steadies his eyes on Farrow, I nearly flinch. I’ve worked for the famous ones a long time, but Loren Hale still scares the shit out of me. I think Farrow might be batshit for not reacting in the slightest. “One bodyguard was already past my quota.”

“We’ve been pretty fucking generous with SFO,” Ryke grumbles. “You could all have been fucking fired. At this rate, I’m wondering why the fuck we didn’t.”

Mentally, I’m keeping a tally of all the times Ryke says  _ fuck _ while we’re here. It’s surprisingly therapeutic, but probably not the best use of my time. Oscar shifts nervously behind me, and I can hear the crunch of a snack wrapper in his pocket. 

This was always the risk with Luna. Beyond the disapproval of her family, my friends’ jobs are on the line for the second time because of me. And though there’s plenty of blame to go around, I won’t throw anyone else under the bus. What I know is knowledge Luna and I picked up on our own, without having to be told. And the not being told? It’s a big fucking deal. Privacy is something the famous ones almost never get. The ones who aren’t ready to admit things… They’re not mine to out.

No, this is on me. So I tell the truth, or at least a piece of it.

“You made it impossible.”

Lo’s eyes flash, and it’s a monumental effort not to cringe back from the hard light of his amber rage. If it weren’t for Connor, placing a strong hand on his shoulder, I think Lo might honestly have decked me. Ryke looks liable to do it for him, but no one moves. 

The three of them, they’re this unit that I can’t imagine breaking apart. Respect for these families is why I asked for all of them to be here. The way Loren is twisting his wedding band, I don’t regret it. Even if I’ve made this three times harder on myself. Lo without Ryke and Connor isn’t really Lo at all. The same way I wouldn’t be Paul Donnelly without Oscar and Farrow. 

Even if Lo can’t, I see the parallels between us. We’re not mirror images, but Oscar and Farrow and I are like a reflection on water of Ryke and Connor and Lo. The concept is the same, but the edges are blurred and distorted. Generations separate us, experiences shaping us each into our own shape and purpose. But we’re tender images of each other, three and three that couldn’t stand to be parted. 

Lo takes a deep, forcefully even breath. “I made it impossible to what? Choose your words carefully, because it’s a miracle I haven’t hit you yet, and make no mistake that I will if you try to pin this bullshit on me.”

Well, here goes nothing. 

“You made it impossible for us not to fall in love with them.”

Lo rocks back on his feet so hard I think he might crash to the floor, clearly shocked with my words. Ryke shares a similar sentiment, though with a far more comical facial expression I want to but shouldn’t compare to a fish. Connor’s face, unexpectedly, never changes, but he does drop his restraining hand from Lo.

“Explain.” Ryke demands flatly.

So I do.

“Doesn’t it make you curious how two people you brought into your children’s lives fell in love with them?” My eyes are solely on Lo, because Sullivan and Akara, Jane and Thatcher, this conversation applies to them too, but I won’t be the one to let that secret slip. How Ryke and Connor discover these secrets, it’s not up to me. “Moffy and Farrow, you could throw that out as a one off. But Luna and I? You can’t call that coincidence.

“PoPhilly, I know it’s not something you all look back on as a success. And I get that. It was bad for you all, in a lot of ways. But I remember watching it, remember witnessing you and Lily struggle with relentless addictions. I remember Connor and Rose fighting to break the standard of how love was supposed to look. I remember Ryke and Daisy pretending they weren’t in love with each other even though it was sucking the life out of them. And I remember all the headlines and setbacks and milestones afterward. 

“Every struggle you overcame, every lesson you learned, you taught that to your kids. You raised them to be the very best parts of you. And the world… The world fell in love with those parts of you a long time ago. How could you expect us not to fall in love with them too?”

Lo’s eyes are glassy, and I find the twin of them in Ryke. I don’t think either of them ever expected me to be able to talk like this. Like things matter and it’s important I make sure they know that. They’ve likely never tried to look past the tattoos and the accent before, have assumed that’s all of me. But I’m taking a cue from Luna, with all her alien splendor, and I’ve forcing them to see deeper. Because I’ll be fucking damned if I let everyone see me as a Southie thug. I’ve always been more, and it’s sure and shit time to let everyone know it. 

Nerves eat at me, but I look to Connor and he gives me a small nod to continue.

“I fell in love with Luna,” my voice is tense, strained with emotion I rarely show anyone but her, “because she was the only person I’d ever met who embraced every weird aspect of herself. Because she can name every Marvel movie in chronological order, and she thinks she was born on another planet. I fell in love with her because she has Lily’s gentle, awkward demeanor and your heart.”

The entire room is holding its breath. I never thought I could have that effect; that I could force people to listen so closely they’re afraid their very breathing might make them miss a word. So this part, the hard part, isn’t nearly as hard as I expected it to be to tell.

“She told me this story, about a kid who used to terrorize your family. A misunderstood kid with trouble at home, who saw nothing in himself worthy of a second chance. But you gave him one anyways. You invited him into your home, into your lives, and you made him a part of your family. And I’m not asking you to do that with me. Because I know I have to earn that spot. But I’m asking you to understand why Luna might do the same thing.”

And god bless Garrison Abbey, because without even name dropping I can see that he’s changed this entire conversation. It’s like evoking a sacred tradition, muttering some weird phrase that equates to trial by combat. Except we’re not fighting. In fact, all the fight seems to have left the room. 

Perfectly on time, I hear feet on the stairs, and I turn to find Luna and Lily descending them. Leave it to Luna to understand my veiled meaning. We’ve dropped Lo’s defenses, and now it’s time to bring in our secret weapon. 

Both woman separate at the bottom of the stairs, and I can imagine how this image looks from above. The mirror that isn’t the mirror, Lily drifting to Lo and Ryke and Connor while Luna drifts to me and Oscar and Farrow. Everything is the same and everything is different. 

Luna tucks herself against my side, casting one grateful smile to our friends behind us, but says nothing. We’re both silent as we watch her parents. Lo’s softened but troubled gaze melts into deep affection when Lily curls into him, standing on her tiptoes to place her arms around his neck. He still has to lean forward for her to reach. Any idiot could see the love radiating off them in waves, and I realize quickly that I want people to see that same love roll off Luna and me. I want everyone to see how intrinsically we belong. 

Lily whispers something in Lo’s ear, and he laughs into a groan as he buries his face in her neck. When they pull back from each other, still attached by hands wrapped around each other’s waists, Lo looks resigned but no longer grim, and Lily is beaming so brightly I’m fairly certain they can see her smile on Luna’s home planet. 

“I’ll hold you to what you said,” Lo tells me, his voice soft but filled with weight. “You have to earn it.”

It’s difficult to contain my grin, so I don’t. “Every day.”

“Do us a favor though?” Lily laughs, her gaze on her daughter. Pride flows so steadily from her it might fill the room to the brim. “Tell your siblings first? The Marrow fallout was fairly extreme.”

Luna nods, and she shares her mother’s soft laugh. “Of course.”

Behind us, Farrow speaks for the first time. “Have fun with Maximoff.”

Every face in the room turns to him then, all eyes wide. Oscar has pulled  bag of chips from somewhere, and he chokes on a chip at Farrow’s words. The impossibility of his implication has us all spinning on a top. 

“You didn’t tell him?” Luna murmurs, and her eyes are alight with wonder. I hadn’t realized how important it was to her, that her brother hear the words from her and me. I think that’s how she’s always wanted it. That sense of honor has always been so strong in her.

“Some secrets aren’t yours to share,” Farrow says, and I hear the double meaning in his words when he walks forward. He knows about Akara and Thatcher, then. I can see his approval that I kept my mouth shut when he strides forward and claps me on the back. “Good luck, man. Maximoff is going to kill you.”

And with that, the whole room laughs. The tension has bled away. I know that I still have a lot to do. That I have to prove to Lo that I’ve earned my spot not just with Luna, but with the Hale’s and the rest of the famous ones. The opportunity alone is more than I ever could have wished for.

It’s been years since I had more than Oscar and Farrow guarding my back. But in this room, I can see the potential of everything I stand to gain. There is no family like this one. And they’ve offered me a part of it. 

“Do you still believe in the Hale curse?” Luna whispers, pressing a small kiss against my neck before burrowing closer into my side.

“No.” I tell her, and mean it. “But I think I’m starting believe in Hale magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two very short pieces of epilogue that follow, but the story is largely over. It's been ages in the making, and I'm a little sad to see it come to a close. Thank you so so much to everyone that's been following along with this fic. I hope you enjoyed this little breadcrumb to keep us going until Tangled Like Us is released. It's been an adventure, and I'm honored to have been granted the opportunity to write this little piece of Hale magic.


	11. Epilogue 1: Loren Hale

**Four Months Later**

The Lake House is loud today. Which isn’t unusual in the slightest, but it’s louder today than most. With so many bustling, excited bodies, it’s a miracle the paparazzi can’t hear us all the way out here. It’s been an age since we were all together and able to be this carefree. But our world has changed and expanded so much in these last few months. Everything is different. But some small things still stay the same.

Like Lily and me. And our spot on the hillside. It’s been more than twenty years and that’s never changed.

“What do you think?” I whisper, bundling Lily into me and pressing our bodies together as close as can be. From our seat on the hill, we have a perfect view of our eldest daughter, dancing in the gently lapping waters of the lake with Donnelly as if no one is watching. As if the world outside of, and their friends and family surrounding them, doesn’t exist.

“I think she’s happy,” Lily murmurs back, kissing the crook of my arm where it tucks around her shoulders. “And for probably the first time in her life, she didn’t need any of our help to get there.”

A smile tugs at my face. Despite my worry, I can sense the truth in my wife’s words. Lily’s always had a knack for sensing love before the rest of us, and I think that’s what I’m looking at right now. Watching Luna and Donnelly together is like watching Lily and I, two people magnetized together. The circumstances are different, but I’m proud of my daughter for being so like her mother. For fighting to keep someone the world didn’t think worthy of her. That I didn’t think worthy of her.

“You know what else I think?” Lily whispers.

“What?”

“I think you see yourself in him. The way you saw yourself in Garrison.”

Her words find a special place in my rib cage, lodging there with the truth of their weight.

Once upon a time, I looked at Garrison Abbey and saw myself, broken and bleeding myself dry. He became a part of my world because I wanted to give him all the opportunities no one gave me when I was hell bent on making the world regret what it had done to me. I wanted him to have the family he deserved, and not the family he was born with. And now he has us. All of us.  Maybe I want that for Donnelly too.

“When did you get so wise, Lily Hale?” Speaking her name still makes me feel alive. Even after all these years my soul has spent entwined with hers, I can’t believe that we got here. That the girl I’ve loved my whole life has my last name, that we have four beautiful children together.

“Daisy always did say I was very, very magical,” Lily smiles, “but I think Luna might be more magical than me. Than both of us. We did good, Lo. We did really, really good.”

Both of us are crying, and they’re tears I never thought I would shed when I was in my twenties, struggling against an addiction I was certain would eat me alive. It took me so long to understand that it was okay to cry, especially when I was happy. Especially when the enormity of my accomplishments forced my hand. Because Lily is right. We did do good.

Our children are quickly outgrowing us, our eldest already married and ready to start a family of his own. Luna living with her first serious boyfriend. Xander making so much progress in his anxiety. Kinney growing into a young woman right before my eyes. But here, it’s not just our accomplishments I see.

Here at the Lake House, we’re all together. Me and Lily. Daisy and Ryke. Connor and Rose. Garrison and Willow. Poppy and Sam. And fifteen kids we never thought we would deserve. We all have houses back in Philly, we all have lives to get back to in a few days, but here, with all of us crammed into rooms we impossibly outnumber and so much laughter I can never pinpoint its source, the Lake House is home.

And I’m realizing now that maybe our children will feel the same way I once did, sitting on this hilltop with my brother and my best friend, my wife and her sisters. Maybe their story will begin and end here, just as ours did. Maybe all our stories have one thing in common.

That we’re never alone.


	12. Epilogue 2: Luna

All of us crowd in, despite Moffy’s long arms, it’s hard to squeeze all eight of us in a frame. Me on Donnelly’s shoulders, my face dipped down and his tipped up to capture each other’s grins, Sulli shrieking with laughter where she dangles under Akara’s arm, Jane tucked against Thatcher’s side, ever composed but both radiating that subtle happiness that could fill a room without drawing an eye, and Farrow with his head on Moffy’s shoulder, his lips pressed against my brother’s chin while he smiles.

When Moffy hands the phone back to me, it’s everything I hoped to capture. The happiness we bring to each other, the love that could power the world, the devotion that magnetizes us all to each other. But mostly, you can see that permanence. 

Even as we age, this image will never change. We will always return to the lake house, probably with our own children someday. There will always be us, each other, the unbreakable bond formed by love and family. 

When everyone gives their consent to the photo posted online, I steal a bit of Moffy’s favorite caption. 

_**#HappilyEverAfterLikeUs** _

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever have questions, comments, concerns, screams to fling at me, etc. please feel free to message me on tumblr @cortland, and I'd love to gush with you about this story.  
> That being said, if you like it, please leave comments, kudos, and feedback. It really helps with motivation to keep writing!


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